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PASSING 


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THE LOVE OF WOMEN 


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BY r/ 

MRS. J-. H. NEEDELL 

M 

AUTHOR OF STEPHEN KLLICOTT’S DAUGHTER| THE STORY OF 
PHILIP METHUEN, ETC. 



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NEW YORK .'‘Ti 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 

\ 'iiL 14 Is g 


1892 










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Copyright, 1892, 

By D. APPLETON & CO. 


\ 

ELECTROTVPED AND PRINTED 

IN THE ^ 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 





PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN 


CHAPTER I. 

A DOMESTIC INTERIOR. 

It was a foggy night even over the open moors and hills of 
Ilallamshire, so that in the towns, though the moon was at the 
full, not a single ray pierced the gloom. 

In the streets of Copplestone itself, the fog, thickened and 
blackened by the smoke of factory chimneys, had made itself 
palpable to every sense but that of the ear. It condensed in un- 
wholesome moisture on the clothes and beards of the passers-by, 
and obscured the light of the gas-lamps, feebly struggling up- 
ward against the unequal pressure. 

The steam-trams — those hideous productions of a doubtful 
civilisation — had ceased to run, and not a cab was to be tempted 
out by the offer of a fare, however exorbitant. 

Martin Cartwright stood for a few moments on the threshold 
of his shop, with his confidential clerk beside him, before he 
braced himself to plunge into the darkness. 

“Happy the man,” he said, with a good-natured laugh, “who 
has no home to go to, or whose home, like yours, Mitchel, is 
only across the street ! Good -night ; I shall find my way. ” 

The other hesitated, reluctant to offer companionship, and yet 
half afraid that it might be expected, but before he could make 
up his mind, his master’s firm footsteps had carried him out of 
hearing. The sense of sight had ceased to be of account. 

The man walked on without hesitation and without collisions, 
guiding himself not only through long familiarity with the road, 
but also from that same instinct of place and its bearings which 
serves the pioneer in some untracked forest. 

His way led right through the town into a close adjacent sub- 
urb, built over with substantial detached houses standing in 
1 


2 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


trim gardens of about a quarter of an acre, and with rows of 
“villa residences ” pi a humbler type and worse construction. 

It was to one of the houses of the better class that Mr. Cart- 
wright found liis way. He observed that the garden-gate had 
been set securely back, and when he had approached the house 
a little nearer, he saw that the door also stood wide open, the 
blaze of gas within the hall being bright enough to reveal the 
fact, though unable to penetrate the darkness a stone’s throw 
beyond. 

A few minutes later he had given his overcoat into the hands 
of the maid who had come forward to meet him, and had 
stepped at once into the warmth and brightness of his home. 

The dining-room at Elm Lodge — for so the prosperous trades- 
man called his home — was furnished in the style of fifty years 
ago, before Art had been drilled to order and reform our domes- 
tic interiors. At one end of the room stood a huge sideboard, 
as innocent of plate glass as of the shelves and alcoves now held 
essential for the deposit of superfluous china, but the flne grain 
and markings of the wood were resplendent with the persistent 
polish of what the mistress of the house called elbow grease — an 
unguent almost unknown to the present generation — and every 
panel served as a reflector to the fire-light. 

Curtains of red damask draped in hard straight lines the op- 
posite windows, and a dinner-table stood between of such dimen- 
sions as almost to occupy the ample space. The chairs were 
ranged against the wall with the precision of a military marti- 
net ; an old-fashioned bureau, the contents of which were con- 
cealed by red silk curtains drawn on thin brass rods behind the 
glass doors, stood in one recess by the fireplace, and a square 
piano in the other. The only informal possibilities of arrange- 
ment lay in the few books and papers which appeared uj)on a 
table which was placed below the windows, and in the comfort- 
able easy -chairs which flanked the hearth. Both chairs were 
provided with rockers. A few framed prints hung on the walls, 
for the most part the outcome of Art Union subscription and 
prizes. And yet it could not be said there was nothing pictur- 
esque in the room, for the fire itself, built up with the lavish 
hand of the north -country housewife and reflected on brass and 
steel — wrought by patient labour to the highest point of bril- 
liancy — was in itself a thing of beauty. 

So also was the mistress of the establishment — she who sat 
expectant by the fireside — Mrs. Cartwright, the draper’s wife, 


A DOMESTIC INTERIOR. 


3 


and known as the handsomest woman in Copplestone. She was 
a tall, stately, large-framed woman, with delicate, aquiline fea- 
tures and an habitual air of reserve and self -repression, but at 
the moment that we see her now, alone and consciously free 
from all restraint, with her hands folded on: the dropped stock- 
ing in her lap, and her head bent in deepest thought, there is a 
sort of spiritual aloofness in her aspect which is singularly 
noble and impressive. 

She rose slowly as her husband entered. 

“I did not hear you come in,” she said, “you are so light- 
footed. I think you pride yourself upon that. ” There was a 
slight touch of querulousness in her voice. No direct greeting 
passed between them ; he came forward to the welcoming fire, 
and, drawing his chair close up to it, leaned forward to the 
blaze, with extended hands. 

“ It is a frightful night, ” he remarked, briskly, “ as you must 
know. A man cannot see his hand before his face. Were you 
uneasy ?” 

“A little. We did what we could, and I knew how sure you 
were. ” 

She looked at him intently. 

“Have you something to tell me?” she asked. “You look so 
keen . and so eager. Your face, Martin, is always an open 
book.” 

Again there was the same touch of querulousness in her tone, 
as if these characteristics did not please her. 

“Right you are!” was his answer, with a sort of assumed 
jocularity ; “ but it can wait till after supper. But — where is 
the boy?” 

“ Gone to bed with a headache which he puts down to the fog 
and I — to temper. ” She paused, then added : “ Things have not 
gone well to-day. ” 

“I am sorry — very sorry 1” It was on his lips to say more, but 
he checked himself, his wife’s glance resting on his face. “Let 
us have supper, ” he said, “ and then you shall hear my news. ” 

The supper was hot and substantial, but Mrs. Cartwright per- 
ceived that her husband ate without appetite and without rec- 
ognition that one of his favorite dishes had been prepared by 
her own hands. His preoccupation was so unusual that it was; 
with difficulty that she kept her curiosity within strict bounds; 
till the moment of explanation came. 

When at length they had both returned to their rocking-chairs. 


4 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


and the servant had left the room, Mr. Cartwright began with- 
out preamble : 

“You will remember, Rachel, that I had a sister?” 

She was a little startled by his abruptness, but it was always 
her instinct to conceal her feelings. 

“ Certainly. I have heard your poor mother mention her 
sometimes. She ran away with an officer of the 10th Hussars — 
a son of Sir Owen Yorke — a bold, profligate young man — the bad 
son of a bad father — of whom her friends had warned her in 
vain. I remember your mother telling me what an agony of 
apprehension she suffered until she knew that the man had 
really married her, as his friends were desperately opposed to 
the match. It is a very sad story — a girl cutting herself adrift 
from all the sacred influences of her home ties. Have you news 
of her?” 

She looked at him with sharp anxiety, suspending the almost 
mechanical knitting of the stocking which she had resumed. 
For a moment he hesitated to answer, then said, abruptly : “ She 
is dead, Rachel ! I have got the news to-day — the time is gone 
by to throw stones at her. Poor girl ! poor girl ! it only seems 
to me like yesterday when she and I walked to chapel together 
on Sundays, and every head was turned to look at her as we 
passed. She was the prettiest girl in Copplestone — there were 
those who said in all Yorkshire !” 

The fine curve of Mrs. Cartwright’s lip hardened a little and 
the color in her face deepened. Then, with a sigh of prompt 
compunction, she checked the weakness she had detected and 
said, gently : 

“I am sorry, Martin. I spoke without knowing. I have al- 
ways heard that your sister was very handsome ; was the letter 
from her husband?” 

“ Her husband ! Captain Yorke has been dead for years. The 
— the letter was written by herself from her deathbed — a few 
shaky lines in pencil.” He got up and shook himself a little, 
then added, firmly, as he placed himself on the hearth-rug with 
his back to the fire and looked at his wife’s softening face : 
“and they were biWght to me by her son.” 

The effect of his words was not perhaps greater than he had 
expected ; a strange look, almost of terror, came into his wife’s 
eyes. 

“Her son!” she iepeate<i, “and what have you done with her 
son ?” 


A DOMESTIC INTERIOR. 


5 


“ I have left him at the shop for to-night. It was not a night 
to take him out in, and — I would not bring him home without 
consulting you. ” 

He looked at her anxiously, hoping for some expression of 
opinion or feeling, but she had resumed her knitting, and her 
fine face had grown hard and cold. 

“I will tell you all about it,” he said, nervously. “I was in 
the counting-house — fog everywhere, gas lighted, shop empty — 
when Mitchel came in to say a youth wanted to speak to me ; 
he had brought a letter of introduction — would not give his 
name. Do you know, Rachel, I had an intuition of something — 
I won’t say wrong, but upsetting, and when I saw him I knew 
him before he had opened his lips ; he is the very picture of 
his poor mother !” 

A dubious smile touched Mrs. Cartwright’s lips. “Do you 
mean me to understand that he is very good-looking or very 
girlish in appearance?” 

The “ boy ” up-stairs, sleeping off his headache, was unques- 
tionably neither the one nor the other. 

“Both. A handsome effeminate fellow with a look of his 
father in his eyes, but his looks don’t matter much, Rachel. If 
he were as ugly as sin, our duty, my dut 5 % at least, would be the 
same. He does not seem to have a friend in the world but our- 
selves. This is the letter he brought.” 

He hesitated a moment as he pulled the paper out of his 
pocket ; there was small encouragement to trust such desperate 
words to his wife’s sypmathy, and he read them in a con- 
strained, almost shame-faced way. 

“ ‘1 am dying, Martin, or I would not trouble you, and I am 
dying of slow starvation. Body, soul, and spirit have been 
starved ever since my blessed husband died and left me to suf- 
fer alone. I should have killed myself long ago had it not been 
for Bertie and a faint memory of Castle Street Chapel. Question 
him. I have no strength to complain. Be a friend to him — 
he has no other — and you are rich and prosperous, and had only 
one sister. Give back to m}^ son just a tithe of what his moth- 
er’s share would have been if she had — her rights. As you do 
to him may God do to you and yours ! ’ 

“‘Christina Yorke. ’” 

His wife held out her hand for the letter as he finished, 
and read it over again. Her face flushed a little as she did so. 

“ It is a dreadful letter for a dying woman to write, ” she said, 
returning it. “It is blasphemous, and it is audacious. She 


6 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


does not ask forgiveness, and seems to have no sense of wrong- 
doing. She even speaks of self-murder as if it w^ere a mere 
matter of choice ! Possibly she did not believe in a judgment 
to come. Then she does not even beg you to be kind to her 
son, but demands it as a riglit. and threatens you in default. 
She could not have succeeded better if she had wished to harden 
our hearts against him. ” 

She paused, but her husband made no answer ; he was care- 
fully smoothing out and refolding the letter. When he had 
done so he went to the old bureau and deposited it carefully in 
a drawer wuth some other family records. He relocked the 
desk and resumed his seat with an air of decision. He was 
often afraid of his wife, but he was able on occasion to throw 
off the weakness. 

“ Rachel, ” he said, “ I was afraid you would take this tone, 
but you will think better of it on reflection. Such a woman as 
you cannot harden her heart against a friendless lad»- because his 
mother failed in what you think her duty. I mean to do mine, 
so far as I see it. God has given us one child only. He help- 
ing me, to all intents and purposes Gilbert Yorke shall stand as 
his brother. ” 

Mrs. Cartwright recognised the tone. 

“Have you considered,” she asked, in a suppressed voice, 
“ what may be the consequences of bringing these boys together ? 
I suppose that is your idea. Don’t you think we are answer- 
able before God for any influence to which we subject the soul 
He has given into our charge? Are you justifled in exposing 
John to the companionship of a lad older than himself, I imag- 
ine, and who has been brought up, most certainly, with no fear 
of God before his eyes. Martin, consider how I liave striven 
to train up our son in the way that he should go !” 

She did not often make an appeal, and it touched him sensi- 
bly. 

“My dear,” he answered, evasively, “you do not know how 
this boy will turn out. He seemed to me a lad of promise, 
easy to like. He may do John good rather than harm ; you 
have often said yourself that he wanted brightening. ” 

“If I have, it has been in some moment of weakness. There 
is not much call for brightness in such a world as ours — to those, 
at least, who look below the surface. Do you think because I 
am well-housed, well-clothed, and well-fed, that I forget the sin 
and misery around me? I bear it on my heart and conscience 


MRS. CARTWRIGHT AND HER NEPHEW. 


7 


daily, and it makes me — what I am ! My one prayer to God is 
that I may be so strengthened to brace up the temper of my 
son that he will be willing to give up his life to doing battle 
against the evil. ” 

“But if he is to do this, Rachel, he must know of it. He 
will be over-matched if you shut him up so close in your mother- 
love that he can see nothing beyond it. ” 

She smiled a little grimly. 

“I do not think I often allow my mother- love to make a fool 
of me, Martin. Time enough for John to come to closer ac- 
quaintance with the world, the flesh, and the devil, when he is 
of full age and has got his weapons ready for the encounter. 
Samuel was brought up at Eli’s feet in the temple of the Lord, 
but I have never read that he was thereby rendered unfit to 
deliver God’s judgments and denounce the backslidings of the 
people and their king. It shall not be with my consent that 
you bring your nephew home if his character and training 
make him a dangerous companion for our son.” 

She rose and folded up her knitting, preparatory to leaving 
the room. 

“I am going-upstairs for a few minutes to see if John is 
asleep ; sometimes the pain in his head keeps him awake.” 

She paused at the door and turned round. 

“ Let us both sleep upon this, ” she said, “ and make it a mat- 
ter of prayer. At all events, I shall see Gilbert Yorke and judge 
for myself before we make him one of the family. It would be 
quite easy for you to provide for him otherwise.” 


CHAPTER H. 

MRS. CARTWRIGHT EXAMINES HER NEPHEW. 

The room in which John Cartwright slept was large and airy, 
and faced the pleasant, well-kept garden, but it was almost as 
bare in point of comfort as an anchorite’s cell. 

A narrow iron bedstead, a washhandstand, a chest of drawers 
which served also as dressing-table, and a couple of chairs, in- 
cluded the whole of the furniture, with the exception of some 
bookshelves against the wall. There were no curtains at the 
window nor a shred of carpet upon the floor. 

The meaning of this austerity was to be found partly in Mrs. 
Cartwright’s hygienic dogmas, but still more in her religious 


8 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


convictions. She was a rigid Methodist, wdth a concentrated 
horror of Popery as bearing the ineffaceable mark of the beast 
and sinking its votaries to hopeless perdition, but her methods 
of training her son to “endure hardships” were curiously akin 
to the practices of the faith she denounced. 

The chamber was full of fog added to the dense darkness of a 
November night; no object was distinguishable except from the 
few rays of light that struggled upwards from the hall. She had 
opened the door noiselessly and now stood in the entrance with 
her head a little, bent, listening intently. 

Quiet as her movements had been, the boy, stretched in bed, 
with wide-open eyes and arms flung upwards on the pillow, 
heard them and instinctively held his breath. He could just 
distinguish the outline of his mother’s figure in the open door- 
way, and his hope was that she w^ould think he was asleep, and 
neither speak to him nor approach him. 

Presently the sound of her voice broke the silence, and as it 
reached his ears he shrank a little as if the contact had been 
tangible. 

“ Are you asleep, John?” she asked, in a careful whisper. 
There was no answer. She waited another moment and then 
took a few steps nearer the bed, still listening. The boy, per- 
ceiving his first mistake, now drew his breath with simulated 
regularity, and attained his object. His mother thought he 
was asleep and withdrew, but before doing so she stroked, half- 
unconsciously, the coverlet of the bed once or twice, in a sort 
of mute caress, and a brief unspoken prayer rushed from her 
soul upwards that God would have her darling in safe keeping, 
to which the incident of the night lent additional intensity ; and 
meanwhile, the son she adored drew a long breath of relief as 
he heard her retreating footsteps and saw the faint streak of 
light shut out by the closing door. 

Five minutes after he was on his knees by his bedside in the 
thick darkness. 

“O God!” he cried aloud in an agony, but stifling the sound 
with the bed-clothes, “break my hard heart! It is like the 
nether mill-stone. I do not love Thee, nor my Saviour, nor 
even my mother. I love nothing upon earth — nor in Heaven !” 

He stopped, shaken with strangling sobs, then prayed in 
silence ; 

“ I need not speak — Thou knowest all things — knowest that I 
am sick with misery !” 


MRS. CARTWRIGHT AND HER NEPHEW. 


9 


And, at the same hour, in a bed-chamber of the house above 
his father’s shop, another youth — his unknown kinsman with 
whom his own life was to be henceforth so closely knit — lay 
heart-sore and sleepless, counting the hours as they struck 
through the murk of the fog upon the sonorous clock of St. 
Peter’s church. 

No passion of premature despair shook him, though he was 
very unhappy, nor did any prayer pass his lips, though desire was 
strong upon him. He lay still and suffered with the qui- 
escence of one at home with ti’ouble, and yet with the fire of hope 
and determination alive in his heart. More, he had rather en- 
joyed the evening. Much good-will had been shown him by 
the young men employed in his uncle’s shop, and who lived in 
the house above, under the care of a trusty housekeeper. Their 
strong provincialisms and tlie rough freedom of their manners 
had pleased his quick sense of humour, and he had been able to 
hold his own in the familiar give and take of intercourse, with- 
out any wound to his fastidiousness. He was already allowed 
to be “not a bad sort o’ chap.” 

Such was Mrs. Cartwright’s influence over her husband that 
by ten o’clock the next morning Gilbert Yorke was walking in 
the direction of Elm Lodge, for the purpose of being subjected 
to a searching examination. 

His cousin John was bound to be at his desk in the gram- 
mar school before that hour, for his mother had no intention of 
consulting his wishes in the matter, and he was kept in igno- 
rance of yesterday’s event. 

But, by a sort of caprice of chance, the two boys encountered 
each othei- that morning. The one — with his strapped books in 
his hand, and his eyes, after their wont, fixed on the ground in 
sombre rumination — came into such sharp collision with the 
other at the corner of a street as almost to knock him down and 
to dash his own loosely held pack out of his hand. 

John grunted an apology, which was accepted with such sin- 
gular pleasantness — the stranger stooping at the same moment to 
recover and restore the books — as to produce a feeling of sur- 
prise, for perhaps in nothing are middle-class English people 
more deficient than in those social amenities which, though 
they have no power to propel or divert the wheels of life, pre- 
vent at least their intolerable friction. 

As John Cartwright passed on his way he took with him an 


10 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


impression that seemed to quicken his habitual sense of lone- 
liness and dissatisfaction ; probably there were people in the 
world who found and made things pleasant. 

Meantime, as Gilbert Yorke pursued his walk to his uncle’s 
house, his heart sank within him. The fog still prevailed, less 
dense than the preceding day, but dense enough to hang like a 
foul canopy over the town and imprison the unwholesome smoke 
of the factory chimneys. Only the sharpest outlines of the 
buildings asserted themselves through the gloom, and for the 
first time in his life he saw shops and streets gas-lighted at mid- 
day. “Is life possible here?” he' thought. “No wonder that 
fellow looked so miserable. Poor mother ! I shall understand 
some things better soon.” 

It was a little clearer when he reached the outskirts of the 
town, but he would still have had great difficulty in distin- 
guishing the house he wanted, had not a man who chanced to 
be going in the same direction pointed it out. 

“The master will be down at th’ shop,” he explained, “but 
thou’lt find the missis at home.” 

A question sprang to the lad’s lips but he chockd it ; the mo- 
ment was close at hand when he would be able to judge for 
himself. 

He w’as admitted to the house like one expected, and shown 
into the dining-room. Mrs. Cartwright did not appear imme- 
diately, but he was not impatient. He was tired with his com- 
fortless walk, and everything around him was new and strange ; 
the glorious coal-fire drew him like a magnet. He sat down 
near it, avoiding the capacious rocking-chairs, and‘ stretching 
out his benumbed hands to the warmth, passed the room and 
its contents in anxious review. It was gas-lighted like the 
streets, and its formality struck him painfully ; it looked to 
him less like the interior of a home than a room in some insti- 
tution. The only sign of occupation that he could discover be- 
ing a half -knitted stocking neatly rolled up on a bracket beneath 
the mantle-shelf. 

He rose, cap in hand, as the door opened and the mistress of 
the house entered, standing uncertain whether to advance or 
not, and waiting for her salutation with an anxiety that could 
be read in every line of his face. Mrs. Cartwright’s anxiety 
was scarcely less than his own, but it was better concealed. She 
came forward slowly until within a few paces of the hearth, and 
looked at him deliberately for a moment or two before she spoke. 


' MRS. CARTWRIGHT AND HER NEPHEW. 11 

I It seemed an act of discourtesy, and, under the circumstances, 
even one of unkindness, but it was instinctive. She looked, as 
1 it were, in her son’s behalf to see whether this unwelcome in- 
truder possessed any advantages over him. What she saw was 
a tall, slender youth, straight and lissom as the typical young 
palm tree, and apparently about seventeen years old. The face, 
somewhat thin and wan, was very broad at the brows, but 
formed below a fine oval to which the cleft but rounded chin 
gave manliness and distinction. The brown eyes were full of 
animation when he talked or listened, but in silence and soli- 
tude they were inclined to melancholy, and the lips were so 
mobile and sensitive as to give the impression of a highly ner- 
vous and perhaps uncertain temperament. 

Rachel Cartwright’s judgment was distinctly unfavorable ; 
she fancied she read all the indications of character which she 
most dreaded, and another point touched her to his disadvan- 
tage. She possessed an almost morbid consciousness of her own 
good looks and of the dignity of her presence (for such self- 
appreciation was regarded by her as one of her besetting sins) , 
but she was also curiously aware that no charm of expression 
or grace of manner softened or enhanced these advantages. 
Her heart had often secretly ached when she had observed the 
sweet intense gaze of childhood shrink away from hers, and 
had furtively watched how her son’s eyes would rest at times 
upon her face and be withdrawn without any softening or kind- 
ling of aspect. 

And now, before a word had passed her lips, she saw that the 
youth before her, who had met her steadfast gaze with one of 
unconcealed anxiety, dropped his eyes, and th^^t his countenance 
fell. 

“ Sit down, ” she said at last, moving slowly to her accustomed 
seat by the fire and taking up her stocking, partly from habit, 
partly to hide her strong excitement. “I suppose you under- 
stand that I am your uncle’s wife, and I have sent for you that 
we may become better acquainted. I did not know till last night 
that I had a nephew. Tell me your name and all about yourself. ” 

He still stood, looking away from her with an expression half- 
wistful, half-perplexed. Then he answered : 

“I think you must know my name. It is Gilbert Yorke, the 
same as my father’s, and I am seventeen years old. For the 
rest, I do not know what to say — I never set foot in this coun- 
try — in England — until yesterday. ” 


12 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


“Is that possible?” 

She thought of the privileges he had missed and the tempta- 
tions to which he must have been exposed, and her voice took 
an inflection which brought Gilbert’s eyes again upon her 
face. 

“Do you pity me,” he asked, “because I have lived where the 
sun shines and the air is clear? If your climate were always 
like this — but I know it isn’t — I would rather beg my bread in 
Florence or Marseilles than be the greatest man in England. 
Had we lived in this town always, my poor mother and I, we 
should have been dead years ago ; but one is able to live and to 
enjoy life on very little in Italy.” 

He s^Doke with great vivacity, in a voice as clear as a bell, and 
with an accent decidedly foreign. There was no boldness in the 
glance with which he returned her scrutiny, but neither was 
there any fear, and both look and manner impressed Mrs. Cart- 
wright disagreeably as indicative of unchastened temper and 
spirit. 

“ Perhaps, ” she answered, with a rather grim smile, “ there is 
nothing so very unpalatable to you in the idea of begging your 
bread? I mean, it is possible you might dislike the prospect of 
earning it still more.” 

He flushed a little. “It was a way of speaking, and I am not 
used to be taken so literally. Certainly I have never done that 
yet, but — I have more than once been very near doing it, 
though it was not because I would not have earned it if I 
could.” He paused, his face settling into an expression of 
troubled recollection. Then he looked up and added : “ I think 
I understand ! You know nothing about me and you want to 
know everything. That is to be expected. Will you ask me 
questions or — to spare your feelings — shall I tell you about our 
selves — my poor mother and me — as well as I can?” 

She bowed her head stiffly and, with the intention of putting 
him more at his ease, she took up her stocking again and re- 
sumed her knitting, but to her astonishment he interposed. 

“ Pardon, but I must ask you not to do that ! I cannot talk 
while I hear the click of your needles. I have gone through a 
goo3 deal of late, and I suppose it has tried my nerves. ” 

“Nerves!” she repeated, contemptuously. “No English youth 
would speak like that.” 

“ Perhaps not, ” he said, smiling ; “ they do not seem to have 
any! How am I to begin to make you understand? Do you 


MRS. CARTWRIGHT AND HER NEPHEW. 


13 


]jnow that it is only a week to-day since my mother was 
buried ?” 

“No,” she replied, more kindly, “I did not know it was so 
short a time.” She looked into his face and added : “You loved 
your mother very dearly?” 

“Loved her! that does not express it. I loved nothing else. 
You must know we were not only mother and son, but friends 
— comrades. We were playfellows and fellow-students ; we 
worked together and suffered together, and no one knew it but 
ourselves. My father’s death left us almost penniless, and from 
that time — I was only six years old — she worked for our living 
till I was able to keep her. She had a wonderful talent for em- 
broidery, and the eye and hand of an artist for design. She 
worked silk gowns for the great ladies, first at Marseilles and 
then at Florence, and altar-cloths for the churches, and she 
would sing at her work like a bird, not because she was light- 
hearted, but that I might believe her back did not ache with 
stooping and her eyes were not dim with fatigue. Never did I 
hear her own to being tired or complain that life was hard for 
her — never 1 And consider 1 She was still a young woman and 
very beautiful. As I walked close to her side in the streets — 
we always went out together — I have seen the people turn to 
look at her. She did not seem to notice. I think she saw no 
one in the world but me and my father in her sweet memory. ” 

He stopped and put his hands before his face. He was in an 
agony of tender reminiscence, and he could not endure to be 
looked at. Had he known it there was a certain forbearance in 
the silence she maintained. It was with difficulty she had re- 
frained from interrupting him when he spoke of altar cloths. 
Presently she broke the silence that had fallen. 

“How did you help your mother? Was she able to send you 
to school?” 

“When we lived at Marseilles I was an externe — how do you 
call it, a day-boy? — at the Lycee, but before I went in the morn- 
ing and at night when I came home I did the work of our lit- 
tle menage, that she might not be hindered in hers. I can 
brush the floors and make beds. I can cook, not badly, and set 
the table ; that is, I can do those things quite well as we wanted 
them. And, ” he added, witli a flash of the eyes, “ if begging 
my bread would have helped my mother, I would have done 
that too 1” 

“ Let the words pass ; I ought not to have said them. I want 


14 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


to know how the last few years have been lived. I presume 
you have been brought up as a Protestant?” 

“ Oh ! yes, ” he answered, with an indifference that shocked her 
conscience, but she had decided to reserve comment until she was 
in possession of the facts she wanted. 

“When did you leave Marseilles and go to Florence?” she 
asked. “And was your way of life the same in both places?” 

“ No, ” he answered, “ it was far worse at Florence. There my 
mother began to sicken and fade, and was not strong enough to 
work as before. Then, I need not tell you how I tried in my 
turn to earn our living and found it cruelly hard. But we 
managed. She thought I did not know how much she suffered, 
and I believed I hid from her some of my shames and vexa- 
tions. I dare say we both deceived ourselves. But we were 
sometimes helped by friends. One family, who had known ni}" 
father, spent two winters in Florence and were very good to us. 
Then the English chaplain was my friend. He gave me lessons 
out of pure charity, and now and then he found employment 
for me.” He smiled. “I can play on the fiddle a little, and 
sometimes I gave lessons on that and in English, but it was to 
very humble pupils, and I was a very poor maestro. ” 

Mrs. Cartwright sighed ; the sense of incongruity weighed 
upon her as also did the eager fluency of the lad. She had 
never known any one of this sort before, and it needed an effort 
to recover the position of authority which seemed to be slipping 
away from her. 

“Were you with your mother when she died?” she asked, 
“and did you see the letter you brought to your uncle?” 

“ I did not read it, for it was sealed when she gave it me. I 
scarcely left her for an hour during her long illness. I w^as her 
nurse so far as a boy could be. The dear sisters of St. Maria 
Nuova came in and helped me some part of every day. She 
suffered — horribly ! You will judge how dreadful it must have 
been when I tell you that eveiy morning when the new day 
dawned I prayed God that she might never see another. ” 

He stopped with knitted brows and a look in his eyes as if 
the vision were still before him. 

“ I can understand that it was hard to bear, ” was her answer, 
“to an unchastened spirit like yours, but do you not know that 
all suffering is ordained by God and that to speak as you do is 
almost impious. We are not allowed to call that horrible which 
comes by His appointment, nor to rebel against the Divine Will. 


MRS. CARTWRIGHT AND HER NEPHEW. 


15 


I It is not possible that any chastisement He may think fit to in- 
flict can equal our desert of it. Besides, was your mother so 
! fully prepared to die that you were justified in wishing to 
shorten her probation? Had she made her peace with God 
I through faith in her Saviour and striven to lead you to do the 
! same? Otherwise her love for you was only a delusion and a 
snare. ” 

i For a moment his face lighted up with a passionate indigna- 
tion, and words rose to his tongue which would have severed at 
once all intercourse between them, but the memory of entreaties 
I so lately spoken by his dying mother helped him to restrain 
himself. 

I “Be patient, beloved, with your uncle and aunt,” she had 
breathed into his ear when every word was a spasm of agony. 
“ Bear the yoke a little while for my sake ! I shall not be able 
to rest in my grave if they cast you out.” And t t n she had 
looked with an agony of forlorn love into his face and mur- 
mured : “ But they could not do it — if they see you they must 
keep you ! It is I — miserable ! — that must let you go !” 

Mrs. Cartwright watclied the conflict of his spirit, and was 
inclined to attribute his victory over himself to motives of self- 
interest. When he spoke again, the music seemed to have gone 
out of his voice and the light from his eyes. “You did not 
know my mother, ” he said, “ and I do not suppose you ever 
knew any one like her. You spoke of Christ just now — weU, 
she was like Him, if divine unselfishness can make a human 
being so. As for the rest of what you have said, I do not un- 
derstand the meaning of it.” 

“Ah!” she said, in an intense tone, “it is all exactly as I 
feared !” She moved her chair a little farther off and sat rumin- 
ating with her eyes on the ground. 

It seemed to her as if the foreboding which seized her mind 
from the moment she had heard that terrible letter was justified. 
To influences of more active evil the boy before her might have 
been exposed, but scarcely to any that, in a spiritual sense, 
were more demoralizing. His ignorance was so absolute he 
did not even know what he lacked 1 No sense of God’s require- 
ments or human inadequacy had ever pierced his soul. This 
was the fatal standpoint where acceptance with God rests on 
the fulfilment of natural duty, so that he based his confidence 
in his mother’s salvation on the miserable grounds of personal 
[ merit. What heresy more soul- destroying could be found? 


16 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


Was there not in her son’s mind already too much of the re- 
volt of the natural man against the complete surrender of self- 
love and self-confidence? Should she introduce to him to the 
peril of what was more than life itself, this fluent and danger- 
ous companion, knowing well how prone he himself was to be 
affected by what was pleasant and attractive to the sense rather 
than by what was for the good of the soul? 

The silence between them was becoming oppressive. Mrs. 
Cartwright roused herself with an effort and once more looked 
at her companion. Gilbert Yorke was leaning back in his chair 
as if he felt the situation to be closed, and was physically ex- 
hausted by the process. She noticed more exactly how spare he 
was and the delicate pallor of his skin, and in spite of the 
strength of her convictions, her sympathies were stirred for his 
physical needs. 

“ Poor lad, ” she said to herself, “ it is evident he has not been 
sufficiently nourished. We can mend that, though it shall not 
be under this roof.” 

Is there, amongst the mysteries of being, some magnetic com- 
munication of thought ? Gilbert Yorke started and coloured as 
if he had followed the workings of her mind. 

“Shall I go?” he asked. “Have you anything more to say to 
me? I presume I am at liberty to return to my uncle’s shop?” 

For almost the first time in her life the word, when he spoke 
it, grated upon her ear. His father had been what the world 
in its folly calls a gentleman, and she asked herself, with a bit- 
terness that was new to her, whether his penniless son pre- 
sumed to give himself airs of superiority. 

“There is plenty of time,” she said, coldly. “They do not 
dine till one o’clock, and it is only half an hour’s walk. Besidee, 

I could not let you go until you had taken some refreshment.” 

Her heart misgave her that her husband would be displeased 
that she had not detained him as a guest for the day, but to a 
woman who would have gone to the stake for her convictions, 
such a consideration was of small account. 

“Thank you, but I could not eat.” 

He rose and picked up his cap, evidently bent on instant de- 
parture, then hesitated as if a sudden thought had struck him. 

“I should like to have seen my cousin — may I see him?” 

He spoke as if deprecating her refusal. 

“You shall see him certainly, some other time,” she said, a 
hurriedly. “ He is not at home now. ” 


DAVID AND JONATHAN. 


17 


She paused to listen, turning a shade paler as she did so ; was 
it not John’s step on the threshold and his voice in the hall, 
questioning the servant? 

What baleful combination of circumstances had brought him 
home some two hours before the appointed time? 

She rose swiftly, with the hope of averting what appeared to 
her the catastrophe of a meeting even before she had been able 
to warn and fortify her son. 

But she was too late. Before she could reach the door it was 
thrown open from without and John Cartwright had entered 
the room. 


CHAPTER III. 

“and the soul of JONATHAN WAS KNIT WITH THE SOUL OF 

DAVID. ” 

As John Cartwright came into the room he looked eagerly 
about as if seeking for something he expected to find. 

Gilbert recognised him at once, and with the ease and 
promptitude which belonged to his character and training, went 
up to him at once with outstretched hand. 

“Is it you? How strange it seems ! I am glad I was not gone 
away. So, you are my unknown cousin !” 

He smiled delightfully. 

John’s face underwent a change. The heavy features lighted 
up, and the magnificent dark eyes, which was the only beauty 
he inherited from his mother, flashed out a cordial welcome. 
He had not taken much notice of Gilbert’s appearance, the fog 
being thick and his mind preoccupied, but the voice and man- 
ner instantly recalled the incident of the morning, and the 
strange yearning that it had excited. 

“ I am glad it is you, ” he said, simply, but he gripped the ex- 
tended hand with a warmth that served to revive the sinking- 
heart* of the other. For a moment the two boys looked at each 
other^ while Mrs. Cartwright gazed at them with almost the 
feelings of one at whose feet a bomb has exploded. Had the 
mysterious principle of evil been already at work to circumvent 
her anxious endeavors? How could they have met already? 
And what had passed between them that was able to bring to 
her son’s face an expression she so seldom saw there? Was 
there, if this dreaded intimacy were established, a further pos- 
2 


18 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


sibility of pain and loss such as her soul sickened to contem- 
plate ? 

Before she could recover herself to question her son, he turned 
to her, speaking with unusual animation. “We have been dis- 
missed, mother, on account of the fog. Mr. Saunders said no 
brains could work a second day under it, and that we were bet- 
ter at home. I called in at the shop to speak to father, and 
there I heard about — Gilbert. ” He hesitated and blushed a little 
as he spoke the unfamiliar name. “Father says he shall come 
home to dinner himself to-day, and that you are to make it a 
good one in honour of the occasion. ” 

“Where have you two met before?” she asked, with a stern- 
ness which made Gilbert look at her, and checked effectually 
John’s exuberance of feeling. Ah, in any hope of pleasantness 
it would not do to forget that he had his mother to reckon 
with ! 

He explained curtly the incident of the morning, but the un- 
usual brightness had disappeared both from his face and man- 
ner. It seemed to Gilbert as if he had put on a mask, the same 
that he was wearing when they had come into collision in the 
street, and the cause was easy enough of explanation. 

Mrs. Cartwright accepted the situation with the dignity due 
to the inevitable. The present had baffled her, but the future 
was still within her control ; so, in a milder voice, she desired 
her son to take his cousin up-stairs to “wash his hands and 
brush his hair before dinner. ” 

“To my room?” with that subserviency even in details which 
comes from too rigid an exercise of authority. 

“ No, ” was the answer, “ your cousin is a guest and must be 
treated like one. Take him to the spare-room and see that he 
has all he wants. ” Then she added, as they were leaving the 
room together : “ I do not want to hurry you, John, but I should 
like to speak to you before your father comes in.” 

The “spare-room” to which Gilbert was taken was comforta- 
bly and substantially furnished. The bed w’as heavily draped 
and the floor carpeted from wall to wall. A deep easy-chair 
stood in the bay of the window, with a small writing-table be- 
side it on which stood a Bible. 

Gilbert looked round. “I shall never be able to go to sleep 
here, ” he said. “ You should have seen my bedroom at Flor- 
ence ! It was little more than a nook in the wall half-way up 
the tower — more like a bird’s-nest than an3ffhing else.” His 


DAVID AND JONATHAN. 


19 


face softened and his eyes took the far-away expression of one 
who sees the unseen in mental vision. Then suddenly a spasm 
of anguish contracted his features ; he threw himself into the 
deep chair by which he had been standing, and burying his 
face in his hands, sobbed aloud. John stood beside him in si- 
lent consternation. The quick transition of feeling baffled him 
a little, and such crying seemed to him unseemly — more like a 
woman or a girl. 

And yet he himself (though no one knew it) wept sometimes, 
and the proof that Gilbert Yorke had feelings deep enough for 
bitter grief was a bond between them. His fear had been 
othei-wise. 

He waited a few minutes and then touched his shoulder 
quietly. The other looked up. 

“Don’t think worse of me for this, old fellow,” he said, “but 
it all came over me so suddenly that I couldn’t bear it. It is 
like Tophet ! I can hardly believe that earth is the same place 
or that I am the same creature. ” 

John hesitated. He was not apt at self-expression, but the 
look in his eyes had something of the speechless intensity one 
sees in those of a faithful dog. Then he said : 

“I don’t think the worse of you. I — I am not very happy 
myself sometimes.” 

“Shall we then agree to stick together?” asked Gilbert, get- 
ting up and shaking himself a little, as if trouble were tangi- 
ble and could be got rid of. “ I have not a friend in the world, 
or a sixpence either, so to speak. It’s a generous offer, John ; 
will you close with it?” 

His versatility distressed his companion, for his experience 
was limited, and there was something incongruous in these 
changes from grave to gay ; but the face into which he looked 
up was so charming in its April sunshine, and the delightful 
voice took so winning an inflection, that he surrendered all 
misgivings. 

“If you like,” he answered, “I will stick to you through 
thick and thin.” 

The return to the family circle was smoothed by the presence 
of the head of the family. His kindness to his nephew was so 
cordial that Gilbert revived under it to such a degree as again 
to excite John’s quiet astonishment. 

His father had never travelled, and he was one of those men 
always athirst for colloquial information ; he found it too much 


20 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


trouble, after business hours, to seek knowledge in books, and 
Hie day of rest was strictly devoted to chapel services and relig- 
ious literature. 

Gilbert, in answer to Martiu Cartwright’s leading questions, 
was prepared to describe Marseilles with the unction of one 
who knew and loved it. He took paper and pencil (without 
leave) from the table under the window, and drew a rapid plan 
of the city, showing how it climbed the acclivity of a hill, with 
a loftier range of hills behind, and with the blue Mediterranean 
at its feet. He went into animated detail about the antiquities 
of the old town and the splendour of the new, and with a fe^v 
strokes of the iiencil he marked the outline of the finest harbour 
of which France can boast, and of the forts by which it is de- 
fended ; and he was only at a loss when his uncle questioned him 
about the manufactures of the town, and of the system of sup- 
ply aud storage practised in the great warehouses which line 
the quays. 

For all this to form an interlude between the courses of their 
early dinner was so contrary to custom and habit and her fixed 
notions of propriety, that Mrs. Cartwright, who had endured 
with patience so long as she was able, at length interposed. 

“Gilbert’s ways are not our ways,” she said, “but it will be 
better for him to conform to them as soon as he can. Don’t 
encourage him, my dear, to talk so incessantly — at least, till 
dinner is over — I cannot bear it !” She put her hand to her head, 
which indeed ached with suppressed nervous irritation. 

The natural result of this was to cover Gilbert Yorke with 
confusion. In many ways his life had been a hard life, but he 
was entirely unused to the snub direct which is of too frequent 
employment in the ordinary British domestic circle, and though 
his uncle pooh-poohed his wife’s rebuff, and took all the blame 
of the innovation on himself, and John looked at him with 
covert kindness, his feeling was that the bread of dependence 
was bitter, and that he would have none of it. 

The rest of the afternoon was a difficult experience for all 
concerned. Mr. Cartwright’s sense of duty towards his nephew 
was quickened into interest and affection as much by the charm 
of his tongue as by that of his personality. He had never heard 
any one talk precisely in the same way before or who seemed 
to have his information so easily at command, for Gilbert had 
soon rallied from the check he had received. The slightly for- 
eign accent and little mannerisms which offended his wife. 


DAVID AND JONATHAN. 


21 


piqued his curiosity and pleased certain perceptions which 
had been decidedly latent hitherto. Beyond this he was full 
of remorseful pity for his dead sister, and the way in which 
this son spoke of his mother at once touched and satisfied 
him. 

As he afterwards said to his wife : “He is a good lad, Rachel, 
a good lad, with his heart in the right place !” 

The family did not leave the dinjng-room after dinner. The 
seniors took their places by the fire in their accustomed chairs. 
Mr. Cartwright had a glass of hot whisky -and -water on the 
bracket beside him, with which he was apt to solace his leisure, 
and his wife, silent and stern, employed herself on some fine 
white sewing for her son. Middle-class women in those days 
made shirts for the men of the household. 

John Cartwright sat in a lounging attitude, his legs out- 
stretched, his hands in his pockets, and his head sunk upon his 
breast. Now and again his mother, who watched him closely, 
though covertly, observed that he glanced towards his cousin 
when any point of special interest occurred in the talk still car- 
ried on between the uncle and nephew, but the look expressed 
nothing beyond simple attention, and he would drop his eyes 
again without speaking, as was his way. At any other time, 
had he sat thus idle, she would have bidden him to find some 
employment, but she was wise enough to recognise that this 
day was not like other days. 

She did not guess that, beneath this mask of stolidity, her 
son was really wrapt in a delicious dream. 

The inflections of Gilbert’s voice, the picturesque appropriate- 
ness of his gestures. The indications of filial duty he uncon- 
sciously betrayed, pleased both his sensuous and moral nature. 
And this new factor in his dreary life — adequate to change it — 
was to be permanent ; the bond of friendship had been knitted 
between them and the hunger of his soul, which he had always 
felt and always concealed, was to be satisfied at last. As this 
thought pressed upon him a little fiush came into his downcast 
face, and a spark of fire shot from his eyes. 

Presently his father’s voice addressed him. 

“ What a quiet chap thou art, lad ! Not a word to say for 
thyself nor a question for this cousin ! How dost thou like the 
idea of having a brother foisted upon thee?” 

John looked up quickly and met his mother’s eyes. Instinct- 
ively he veiled the gladness in his. 


22 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


“ I like it, ” he said, drily, but a smile lurked at the corners 
of his mouth. 

“And what says the mother?” pursued Mr. Cartwright, with a 
secret anxiety that he tried to keep out of his voice. 

“We will talk of this, Martin, when the boys are in bed. I 
am as anxious as you to do the best we can for Gilbert Yorke ; 
the difficulty will be to decide what is the best. ” 

John looked steadily at her and read determination and an- 
tagonism in every line of the face he knew so well. A sudden 
anguish of apprehension seized upon him ; he glanced across at 
Gilbert, then at his father, and took his resolution. 

“If he is to be my brother,” he said, “one thing is certain — 
we must live together. Promise me, father, wliatever you and 
mother arrange that Gilbert and I shall live together !” He 
tried to speak calmly, but the desire upon him was so strong 
that his voice shook. 

Mr. Cartwright laughed a little nervously, for his wife’s eyes 
were upon his face. 

“And what does Gilbert say?” he asked as a diversion. 

“ That I shall always be grateful to you and to John, whether 
you give me a place in your home or not. ” 

There was a little pause, filled up with an interchange of 
looks between the lads, in which each challenged the other to 
steadfastness. The big table stood between them so that they 
could not draw together, and indeed, though that might have 
been the instinct of the elder, John Cartwright was not prone 
to demonstration. He perceived his mother was about to speak, 
though she had never relaxed her sewing, and his attention was 
instantly arrested. 

“I do not think we should bind ourselves to any fixed plan,” 
she remarked, quietly, “without giving more thought to the 
matter ; the boys have been brought up so differently. John, 
you know, goes to the college after Christmas to prepare him- 
self for his great work. Such a training would ill suit his 
cousin. ” 

“Every boy who goes to W'esley College is not meant for the 
ministry — not half of them !” 

There was a note of opposition in the speaker’s voice new to 
his mother’s ear. 

“ Such may be the case, ” she pns wered, “ but that is when they 
are the sons of gentlemen or wealthy mill-owners who have not 
got their bread to earn. It would surely be unnecessary for 


DAVID AND JONATHAN. 


23 


your cousin to waste time in learning Latin and Greek. But 
perhaps he knows them already — he seems very clever. ” 

Gilbert shook his head. It was only the look in John’s face 
that prevented him from bursting out into some passionate dis- 
claimer. 

“Words could not say how ignorant I am,” he said. “I know 
nothing of either, and I agree with my aunt that such learning 

is not for me, nor do I want it. All that I want is ” here 

he stopped, checked by a return of his former agony of grief. 
The time was so short since he had lost his all. He looked 
round him with something of the feeling of a wild creature 
suddenly caught and trammelled. The fog completely blotted 
out the world beyond the windows ; the light of the unseason- 
able gas jets fell direct upon Mrs. Cartwright’s stern and hand- 
some countenance. He thought of the worn sweet face in 
which love for him had conquered mortal suffering and over- 
borne the proud reluctance of a lifetime ; but he thrust the rec- 
ollection from him. He would not weep before this woman, 
even if his sorrow choked him ! 

He steadied his voice and repeated (changing the words he 
had meant to say) : 

“All I want is — an answer to my mother’s letter. I did not 
read it, as I have said before, but I know that it was an appeal 
to my uncle to help me. I was in duty bound to deliver it, 
though, God knows, I would rather have begged such help from 
strangers. But now I have done as I promised, and if you do 
not want me, I can go — back to my old life and my old work. 
You need not reproach yourselves, I can earn my own living — 
in a fashion. What was enough for two will serve for one. ” 

His eyes flashed and independence akin to scorn flamed on his 
thin cheeks and touched every feature in his face. The soft 
brown eyes were alight with indignant pain. He held him- 
self erect, for he had stood up as he spoke, and the poise of the 
head and figure was superb. John had never seen anything so 
fine in his life, and he gazed with the intentness which one 
gives to a new revelation. 

Mrs. Cartwright looked, too, and an angry light came into her 
own eyes. This was precisely what she had feared ; the ebulli- 
tion of temper of a spoilt and ill-trained boy. She was little 
used to defiance, and least of all would she brook it in the per- 
son of Gilbert Yorke. She had made a movement to speak 
when her husband held up his hand to restrain her. 


24 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


“You are too hot and hasty, Gilbert, and speak to us as you 
have no right to speak. I don’t think you have anything to 
complain of ; but there shall be no room for misunderstanding 
between us. From the time I read your poor mother’s letter 
my mind was made up ; you shall stand on tlie same footing as 
our own lad and be like another son to us. I am pleased you 
and John seem to have taken to one another. If he goes to 
Wesley College, so shall you ; it will give us time to know you 
better and to find out what you are fit for. As John and his 
mother have made up their minds he is to be a minister, it is 
to be hoped you will take kindly to the shop. It would be a 
pity if such a business as mine should go a-begging !” 

There was a twinkle in his eye as Martin Cartwright glanced 
at his nephew. 

“Is he not already old enough for that?” said his wife, fold- 
ing up her work with nervous hands, “or do you think a few 
terms at the college will help to make him a better draper?” 

Gilbert looked from one to the other and then said, steadily : 
“I would as soon be a draper in Copplestone as anything else; 
that is, if my uncle’s heart is set upon it. It is the only return 
I can make.” 

He took Martin’s hand as he spoke and pressed it gratefully. 
His impulse had been to put it to his lips, but he, had a quick 
perception that such an action would be out of place. 

“ Good boy ! But, as I said before, we will not be in a hurry ; 
a little more schooling will do you no harm, even though High 
H. is to be the end of it. I think, mother, he has said as much 
as we can expect. And now, lads, take yourselves off ! I am 
good for my after-dinner nap.” 

Mrs. Cartwright rose from her seat and her lips opened, but 
the boys had disappeared before she could decide on the form 
of her interference. For a few minutes slie stood deliberating, 
with her hand shading her face, some instinctive prayer for 
divine guidance rising in her heart. Then she turned to speak 
to her husband with a softness in her eyes which was not often 
seen there. But Martin Cartwright appeared to be already 
asleep. 


MY UNCLE, THE DRAPER. 


25 


CHAPTER IV. 

MY UNCLE, THE DRAPER. 

Two days after these events, during which the boys had been 
suffered to be together as little as Mrs. Cartwright’s diplomacy 
could effect, a curious incident occurred. 

It was Saturday and a half -holiday at the grammar school, 
so that after their early dinner Gilbert and John had started off 
for a walk. Mr. Cartwright had himself suggested that they 
should do so before he left for his place of business in the morn- 
ing, and his wife did not see her way to interfere. 

The weather had improved. Frost had succeeded fog, and the 
•un was casting a feeble brightness across the reek of the smoke. 

“You have no idea how pretty the country is outside the 
town,” began John, encouragingly ; “we will walk to Seamoor. 
Let us make haste — the days are so short. Aren’t you inclined 
to talk, Gilbert?” 

Gilbert shook his head. “John,” was his answer, “if it were 
not for you I should run away. I can’t live this life !” 

The other stopped ' short and actually turned a little pale. 
“Where would you run to?” he asked, in a low voice. 

“Back to B’lorence, where my poor mother is lying in her 
grave all alone — back to daylight and to liberty. I want to 
make you understand I I was never so well housed or so well 
fed in my life, but I would rather eat rye bread and macaroni, 
and sleep in the open air like a dog under some palace portico, 
than bear what goes with it. You see, I have been always used 
to say the word and do the thing as they took me, now I am 
watched and condemned in advance. Yes, yes, I know what 
you would say, and I ought not to speak a word against your 
mother to you. She loves you dearly enough, at all events !” 

John gave a short laugh of incredulity, but his cousin was 
too self-absorbed to notice it. 

“ But that is not the worst, ” he went on. “ I w'ould try and 
bear that for your sake and because my uncle is so good to me ; 
but can one bear this?” He glanced around him. “And this?” 
he added, with a shudder, as a steam-tram propelled its hideous 
bulk in their direction. They were walking through South 
street as he talked, flanked on both sides with red brick houses 
and shops of irregular and meagre appearance, and roofed, as 


26 


PASSING THE LOVE OP WOMEN. 


it were, by a strip of sky that would have shown the pale blue 
of wintry sunshine had it not been darkened and blurred by 
the dense smoke of a hundred colossal chimneys. 

“I have not seen daylight, John, since I set foot in England, 
and to live in such a place as Copplestone — and as you live — 
will kill me. I dare not, in your house, even speak to my 
fiddle !” 

John held his peace, conscious of an imj)erfect sympathy. 

“ To live in Florence, ” persisted Gilbert, “ is just to suck in 
beauty with every breath. What do you know? How can I 
give you any idea? It’s like talking to the blind and deaf! 
The place is warm, and bright, and alive. Jack — not a pit, not a 
tomb ! There’s colour everywhere ; you hang over the crowded 
bridges and see every line reflected in the golden river below. 
If you look up there’s a sunshiny sky overhead, with such towers 
and steeples standing out against the blue as no other city in 
the world can beat. There are marble palaces that make the 
Arabian Nights poor and tame, and I am as free as the air to 
walk through their galleries and look at their miles’ length of 
pictures and statues. Fancy ! they stand always open, and 
many a hungry hour I have passed inside and forgot that I was 
hungry. ” 

John looked up with a curious smile. 

“ I was never hungry, in that way, in my life, ” he said. 

Gilbert smiled too. “But hunger there, ” he said, “is not so 
cruel and nipping as it would be here; and it’s more easily 
satisfied. You see, at every step and turn there’s something to 
look at. Art, as one calls it, isn’t shut up with the pictures 
and statues ; it’s all abroad in Florence. Perhaps it’s a bit of 
fresco on an old w^all, or a chipped bas-relief on a dingy door- 
post, or you. meet Giotto’s Campanile as you turn the corner. 
Then in the spring-time it’s alive with flowers for sale — such 
flowers, John! They spread them all over the broad ledges of 
the old palaces and churches, and you will often meet men with 
sheaves of lilies on their shoulders to decorate some church for 
a festival. You have no festivals in Copplestone, nor in all 
England, I think !” 

John did not answer at once. He was overwhelmed by the 
rush of Gilbert’s speech and the conflict of feeling it excited. 
They had almost passed beyond the town before he answered. 

“ I see we are very unlike, ” he then said. “ The things that 
satisfy you wouldn’t satisfy me, I expect, nor should I get as 


MY UNCLE, THE DRAPEK. 


27 


much out of them. All that you say about Florence is true, 
uo doubt, but there seems somehow something left out in your 
way of looking at things. It is all outside of one. You don’t 
think, do you, that it is the business of life to make things 
pleasant?” 

“Indeed I do,” returned Gilbert, “and I wish every one at 
Elm Lodge were of my persuasion !” 

“ If you mean that you wish mother and I were sweeter tem- 
pered, I agree with you ; but, after all, that is but a small matter. 
You seem to feel that we are brought into the world to enjoy 
ourselves and have a right to complain if we don’t. With my 
views of life I am not sure I should ever have the heart to be 
happy, even if I had the chance.” 

“Poor John!” said Gilbert, softly. “I understand — you have 
been brought up to think it a sin. ” 

“ Not so much a sin, ” answered the boy, knitting his brows 
above his sombre eyes, “as an impossibility. ‘The whole world 
lieth in wickedness;’ ‘Strait is the way that leadeth to eternal 
life and few there be that find it ;’ ‘When ye have done all, say 
that ye are unprofitable servants;’ these words are written, 
and I believe them, and even if I were in your Italian city and 
standing amongst your pictures and statues, they would rise up 
between me and them and make enjoyment impossible. There 
it is, Gilbert. You seem to have no feeling of responsibility, 
I)ut take life as easily as some creature of the woods. Don’t 
you think that God has set us all tasks alike?” 

“Are you speaking out of your owi^ head,” asked Gilbert, “or 
doing what you have been told to do? I don’t like this kind of 
thing, Jack 1” 

John’s face darkened and flushed. 

“Then we’ll stop it. Only understand this — all the beauty 
and glory of the world wouldn’t make me happy so long as I 
knew — what I know of myself, and saw men and women living 
as if there were no God and no judgment to come. Not, ” he 
added, in a muffled voice, “ that it makes much difference to 
those who remember it 1” 

Silence fell between the lads. John felt miserable but he 
looked sullen, and Gilbert’s lighter spirit sank under a weight 
of spiritual oppression. 

The pale sunshine was already fading ; the country road, so 
picturesque to the limited experience of the one, seemed flat and 
uninteresting to the other ; the valley of the Arno and the 


28 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


snow-crowned crests of the Apennines dwarfed such humble 
beauty. 

But it was he who spoke first. 

“Don’t let us quarrel, Jack. That would finish the thing up ! 
If preaching is to be your calling, I see no reason why you 
shouldn’t practise it on me. Go ahead and spare not ! What 
tasks have been set us?'' 

But the spell was broken. It was not often that John Cart- 
wright’s tongue was loosed, and no effort of his own could set 
it free again. He shook his head, and they continued to tramp 
side by side in silence. 

At this moment an open carriage, not veiy well appointed^ 
which they had carelessly observed in the distance, had ap- 
proached sufficiently near for John’s recognition. 

More from the wish to break an awkward silence than from 
any interest in the announcement, he said : 

“It is the Denison’s carriage — one of our county families. 
Don’t stop,” he added, a little impatiently. “Why, Gilbert, it 
isn’t possible that you know them?” 

But his cousin’s face had become suddenly radiant. The oc- 
cupants of the carriage were two : one was a girl of about fif- 
teen, warmly clad in velvet and fur, and with a heavily-plumed 
hat shading her face. A well-lined tiger-skin rug was drawn 
so closely about her waist as to conceal all further details of 
person and costume, and to give a quaintness of effect to the 
charming head and shoulders. 

By her side sat her father, a man under fifty years of age, but 
prematurely bowed and wasted from the effects of a slow but 
mortal disease. In his youth Cyril Denison had been singu- 
larly handsome and debonair, but scarcely a trace of this re- 
mained in the hollow and shrunken face out of wdiich the eyes 
gleamed with a piercing and unkindly light. To meet the ex- 
pression of those eyes at any moment when Mr. Denison was off 
guard, w^as to read pretty clearly the story of his spiritual ex- 
perience ; that disappointment, deep as the springs of his being, 
had been met with a cynical bitterness which, just so far as it 
strengthened him to disclaim his need of sympathy and con- 
slation, exasperated the inward revolt against the hardship of his 
lot. 

Gilbert, upon whom his cousin’s question had been lost, stood 
still by the roadside, his cap in his hand, his face, as we have 
said, alight with pleasure, and his eyes fixed on the approach- 


MY UNCLE, THE DRAPER. 


29 


ing vehicle as if waiting for some signal to advance, and, to 
John’s increasing surprise, he did not wait in vain. 

As soon as the girl’s eyes fell upon him, her recognition was 
as prompt as his own, and her clear voice ordering the coach- 
man to stop reached their ears. 

The next moment she was bending eagerly forward, with both 
her little gloved hands, warm from her muff, extended to meet 
those of Gilbert Yorke. 

“ Oh ! this is delightful, ” she said, in a sweet, ringing treble, 
‘‘to meet you in Yorkshire — you! Where are you staying? 
When will you come and see us? And the fiddle — do not forget 
the fiddle !” 

Then turning her animated face to Mr. Denison, she added, 
stating a fact rather than asking a question : “You remember 
Gilbert Yorke, father?” 

Her movements and speech had been so prompt and eager 
that Mr. Denison had scarcely had time to realise the situation, 
still less to avert it, but this only served to provoke him the 
more. 

“My memory is not so tenacious as my daughter’s,” he an- 
swered, with his eyes fixed keenly on the youth’s blushing face ; 
“or possibly she is making a mistake. I have no recollection 
of the honour of previous acquaintance. ” 

“ So far as you were personally concerned, it was so slight that 
you may well have forgotten me,” began Gilbert, but at this 
point Margery interposed. 

“Oh 1 I will bring things back to my father’s recollection ! It 
was Aunt Sutherland who first knew Mrs. Yorke and took me to 
see her. You must remember that we told you how lovely and 
sweet she was, and you said that Colonel Yorke had been a 
friend of yours in the old days. Then there was Gilbert’s little 
fiddle that you praised so much. Why, you have spoken of it 
since — that symphony of Berlioz which you allowed was beau- 
tiful. Gilbert played it twice over to please you !” 

Mr. Denison’s recollection of the circumstances was really ex- 
act. Mrs. Yorke, the impoverished widow of Sir Owen Yorke’s 
disinherited son, had been one of the army of proteges mus- 
tered by his quixotic and unconventional sister. She had 
brought Gilbert more than once to their hotel on the Lung 
Arno ; but so slight was the interest that he took in the details 
of her own or of his daughter’s daily life, that he had not the 
least idea what measure of intimacy had subsisted between her 


30 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


and the boy for whose skill as a musician his own attention had 
been so eagerly claimed. 

Margery was evidently more hopelessly demoralised by her 
long association with her aunt than he had feared, and yet his 
fears had been ominous. 

“I think,” he said, in a low, cutting voice, “that I have some 
faint remembrance of the circumstances to which my daughter 
alludes and ought to apologise. It is the Berlioz symphony that 
has done it ! I believe, young as you were, you gave lessons, 
and I know that my sister, Mrs. Sutherland, has an unwearied 
sympathy with all struggling artists, be they who they may. 
Are you teaching or studying music at Copplestone, Mr. Yorke? 
and can we be of any use to you? There is not much in the 
power of a poor man, but what little there is shall be at your 
service. ” 

The tone and manner were not to be mistaken. Margery’s 
eyes sparkled with prompt indignation, and she would have 
spoken again to make amends for her father’s cruel courtesy, 
had he not held her hand in a restraining grip beneath the shel- 
ter of the tiger- rug. 

John Cartwright stood aloof and watched them. He was too 
ignorant of his own nature to be aware that it was acutely sus- 
ceptible to all sensuous impressions, any more than he knew 
with what covert intentness he was gazing on Margery Deni- 
son’s beautiful and vivid face, and how the poignant music of 
her young voice seemed to touch some chord of his own being. 
But such vague sensations as these were altogether secondary to 
the interest he felt in his cousin’s situation, and the acute anx- 
iety with which he awaited his answer to Mr. Denison’s ques- 
tion. He would have effaced his own individuality if that 
could have done any good or changed the stubborn face of facts. 
In his eagerness John drew a little nearer to the carriage, for 
Gilbert was speaking in a low voice. 

“ No, ” he said, “ I am not so happy ; but I have found such a 
good friend in my uncle that I stand in need of help from no 
one else. I see I have made a great mistake — I will not offend 
again. ” 

“Are you living in Copplestone?” demanded Mr. Denison, 
“and is it permitted one to ask who is your uncle?” 

“ Oh ! yes, ” was the unhesitating answer, while humour (which 
on occasions can be as pathetic as tears) lighted up the boy’s 
face ; “I have no doubt you know him by name — it is Martin 


MY UNCLE, THE DRAPER. 


31 


Cartwright, my mother’s only relative, and this is my cousin 
John, his son.” He touched John’s shoulder. Mr. Denison 
drew a breath of relief ; facts such as these- disposed of all diffi- 
culty, and he was able to recognise John by a little nod of con- 
descension. It amused him greatly, too, to feel the start of 
instinctive dismay with which his daughter had heard the 
announcement. 

“ There are few men in Copplestone, ” was his gracious reply, 
“ who do not know Mr. Cartwright. I congratulate you, Mr. 
Yorke ; your uncle has the reputation of being an excellent 
and liberal man. Mrs. Sutherland will be delighted to hear of 
your good fortune. And now you must permit us to say good- 
morning. ” 

But Margery had rallied from her blow, and, despite the re- 
straining grasp upon her arm, made a quick movement to aiTest 
Gilbert’s retreat. 

“I did not know,” she fluttered, “that is, 1 had forgotten, that 
your mother belonged to our county. I am almost afraid to ask 
if she is with you. She was so ill — she suffered so much ” 

There were tears in her voice as well as in her bright eyes, 
and the young fellow’s heart bowed at her feet. 

“So much,” he answered, in a low voice, “that I am glad that 
— she is dead. ” 

Mr. Denison winced a little. Such was the insolent arrogance 
of youth and health. 

“ Drive on, ” he said, sharply. “ You will excMse us, Mr. Yorke ; 
I am afraid of my daughter taking cold.” And Gilbert stepped 
back as the carriage rolled on. 

Mr. Denison preserved silence for some time, fully expect- 
ing that his impetuous daughter would be the first to speak, but 
as she showed no intention of doing so, but sat very erect, with 
her head turned from him, he deemed it best to deliver his 
ultimatum. 

“ This is a very disagreeable incident, ” he said, “ and is the 
result of your aunt’s extraordinary want of judgment. The 
young fellow was almost disposed to assume airs of equality. 
I presume it will be unnecessary to say that all intercourse 
must cease between you, unless, indeed, he should be so for- 
tunate as to show you a ribbon across the counter. ” ^ 

Margery turned sharply. “I despise myself.” she said, “and 
he must despise me, too ! I do not think if I had been told he 
had committed a crime I should have felt so dreadfully shqcked 


32 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


as when he said the great draper in South street was his uncle. 
He must have seen it in my face! It is pitiful. We are not 
princes and Gilbert Yorke is not a beggar !” 

Mr. Denison shrugged his shoulders ; he was contemptuously 
amused by the girl’s state of mind. 

“ My dear, ” he said, “ your young fiddler is not a beggar, by 
any means — probably not so much so as ourselves — nor are we 
of the blood royal ; but he is just as far, if not a little farther, 
off from us, being the nephew of Martin Cartwright, as if he 
were the one and we the other. Noblesse oblige, Madge. ” 

“ I am not sure, ” said the girl, bitterly, “ I am not sure ! If I 
had been on foot I would have run after him and explained I 
did not mean it. And yet I did, ” she added ; “ it is no good to 
try and cheat myself. I did mean it and I despise myself as a 
poor, pitiful creature !” 

“Really, Margery, it distresses me to acknowledge that I 
am of the same opinion. We will drop the subject. I have no 
taste for argument with a ijerson who is one-half child and the 
other half fool, without even the saving grace of filial respect. 
I cannot bear this. You shall go to school. ” 

“Was I undutiful?” she asked, in a softened voice, “I did not 
mean it.” 

“ None the less, ” replied Mr. Denison, leaning back wearily in 
the carriage and closing his eyes, “none the less, Margery, you 
shall go to school. ” 

Meantime the two boys pursued their way doggedly along the 
Seamoor Road. John’s mind was deeply stirred, so that he 
would have found it hard to say what feeling was uppermost. 
An instinctive delicacy withheld him from forcing his sympathy 
on his cousin ; he would not even look at him, but made one or 
two irrelevant remarks as they went along, to which he neither 
got nor expected any reply. 

At last, after they had measured about another weary mile, 
Gilbert stopped. 

“Let us turn back,” he said. “If you are not tired, I am.” 

John wheeled round instantly, and again silence reigned which 
he now feared to break. His secret apprehension was that, in 
his soreness of heart, his cousin might in a way consider him 
accountable for what had happened. 

Would he have spoken as he did had not his uncle’s son been 
standing beside him? Was it not natural, excusable, at least, to 


MY UNCLE, THE DRAPER. 


33 


regret the closeness of the tie between them, since it had served 
to break one so much sweeter? 

His heart beat faster as he saw from the movement of Gil- 
bert’s head, and the gesture with which he seemed to pull him- 
self together, that he was at last going to say something. They 
were now within ten minutes’ walk of Elm Lodge. 

“John,” he began, “don’t ssij a word at home about — what 
has happened this afternoon.” 

“ Not a word ; trust me !” 

“ You see, thej^ knew my father in the old days, and were very 
kind to my mother and me for his sake ; that is, she and her 
aunt. I ought to have understood things were different now, 
and not have put myself in the way of such a rebuff. I don’t 
think I should if she had not called me ; you heard her. Jack ; 
you heard her call me? And I forgot everything in the joy of 
seeing her again. ” Then, with one of his swift transitions he 
added, smiling : “ For that matter, whenever Margery Denison 
calls I should answer, were I at the ends of the earth, and pros- 
trate, like Job, on a dunghill ! But she was sorry. Jack, very 
sorry that — forgive me, old fellow— I was your father’s nephew. 
It was hard on us both. ” 

“It was very hard, and she was as sorry — as you were.” 

“Thanks, Jack, that does me a little good, and now we will 
say no more about it. Another time, perhaps, it may comfort 
me a little to tell you something about her, only — I don’t think 
it will. And for the rest, you remember your promise to stick 
to me through thick and thin?” 

“ Yes, ” said John breathlessly. 

“Well, all I want is to remind you to keep it, for it strikes 
me it is all I shall have to depend upon, and I am such a poor, 
weak-kneed creature that I grow desperate if no one cares for 
me. It shall be fair play. Jack ; I will pay back as much as I 
take !” 

“All right!” said Jack huskily; “suppose we shake hands 
upon it?” 

They did so and then dropped each other’s hand with the 
awkward shyness born of such unusual effusion of feeling. 
They entered the house together, blinking like owls in the sun- 
shine as they stepped out of the darkness into the glare of the 
already gas -lighted hall. 

John Cartwright’s heart was singing quietly for joy, while 
Gilbert Yorke, perceiving with his quick glance that tea was 
3 


34 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


not quite ready in the cheerful dining-room, sped upstairs to 
the quiet of his own chamber, and throwing himself into the 
mow familiar rocking-chair, with hands strained over his eye- 
balls to keep back the unmanly tears, lived over again in bitter 
recollection the humiliation, pain, and loss of that afternoon’s 
experience. 

The passionate yearning of the boy’s heart, as he thought of 
his mother, grew to agony until another feeling rose to cliasten 
and subdue it. 

“But if she were alive I would not tell her!” he said to him- 
self. “ Thank God, she never knew quite all I had to bear !” 


CHAPTER V. 

LIKE AND UNLIKE. 

The growth of a passion in the human heart is almost as 
secret and mysterious as the springing of the blade or the de- 
velopment of the blossom from the seed cast into the ground. 

It happened at this juncture that Mrs. Cartwright was called 
away from home to attend the death- bed of her father, an old 
minister resident in a remote village of the West Riding, and 
filial duty kept her by his side for a period of six weeks. ‘ 

With how sore and anxious a heart she kept her protracted 
watch was only known to herself ; her grief for her father had 
every mitigation she could desire, for his gathering into the 
inevitable harvest was that of a shock of corn fully ripe ; but 
she suffered intensely from the knowledge that she had left her 
beloved son fully exposed to the baneful influence of the new 
inmate of their home. 

It would have cut her to the quick to have known how little 
her absence was regretted. She left well-trained servants be- 
hind her, so that household arrangements went on pretty well 
in the old way, and although her husband undoubtedly missed 
lier impressive personality, he was conscious of a certain frc^e- 
dom and relief which left him at liberty to pursue his own way 
^without check or expostulation. 

To John it was like the lifting of a yoke, the full pressure of 
which is only realised when it is removed, and to Gilbert it 
gave the opportunity of showing himself in all his natural char- 
acteristics as could never have been under his aunt’s watchful 
and inimical glance. 


LIKE AND UNLIKE. 


35 


As it wanted fully six weeks to the Christmas holidays, Mar- 
tin Cartwright, whose local influence was considerable, induced 
the masters of the grammar school to admit his nephew as a 
pupil for that time, partly to provide him with something to 
do, and partly to establish a closer comiDanionship between the 
two boys. 

He also advised that as Latin and Greek were to form no part 
of the lad’s education, he should take advantage of this oppor- 
tunity to improve his very rudimentary knowledge of arithme- 
tic and geography. 

It was characteristic of Gilbert that he seemed to feel no mor- 
tification at his own deflciencies when brought into contact with 
the hard-headed youths of the North, nor from the fact that his 
cousin, though a year younger than himself, was at the head 
of the sixth form, while he found his temporary place in the 
third. 

Martin Cartwright, indeed, had imbibed a very inadequate 
notion of his son’s scholarship until Gilbert supplied the details 
which gave new life and eaning to the bald statements of the 
periodical reports. John was not a boy who evoked much en- 
thusiasm either in his teachers or his comrades ; the glow of his 
own ardour was a subterranean Are. 

Perhaps this serves to explain the strength of the attraction 
which from the first moment of blundering collision bound him 
to his cousin. Gilbert Yorke, with the subtle apprehensiveness 
of his genius, understood him at once, and made his varied 
appeals to his heart and brain confident of response, and the 
response came with the passionate abandonment of a temper 
breaking free from life-long restraint. 

As they walked to and fro to school together, or sat up at night 
secretly talking in their bedroom — for whatever opportunities 
the day affords, there is something in the privacy of night that 
tempts to more intimate communion — they scarcely left any- 
thing untold of the immature experience of each. Perhaps Gil- 
bert, who seemed the most outspoken, was the one who guarded 
some secrets of his life, but if so it was for others’ sake than 
his own. 

“You would scarcely think I was a coward, Gilbert,” said 
John on one of these occasions, “but I am. When I was a lit- 
tle chap and was sent to bed early and left in the dark, I suf- 
fered such terrors that I wonder it did not drive me mad. I 
used to pray to God to let me hear some sound of life down- 


36 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


stairs — the opening or shutting of the dining-room door, the ' 
peal of the house bell, or the servants talking in the kitchen — 
that is, when my desperation gave me courage enough to creep 
out of bed and to kneel down by the side of it. I did not dare 
to pray shivering under the bed-clothes. I have sometimes ven- 
tured so far as to sit on the head of the stairs in my nightgown 
that I might see the line of light under the dining-room door. 
But that was in the old house where there was no gas. ” 

“What were you afraid of?” asked Gilbert. 

“What I am afraid of still, though perhaps in a different 
way : I was afraid of the whole spiritual world — of God, of my 
sins, of the judgment to come ; and in the awful darkness of the 
bedroom these things seemed to take shape and voice, to touch 
me and speak to me. I once thought that I heard the devil 
laugh, and I shrieked out so loud that my mother came in. She 
was kind, I remember. I told her I was frightened, but I did 
not tell her how, it would have been impossible, and she thought 
to comfort me by saying that children who loved God never felt 
afraid. Then I felt sure I did not love God, and that made me 
more miserable than she found me.” 

“ Poor little man ! 1 wish I had been there and I would have 

kept the devil at bay. But seriously, Jack, you don’t mean you 
ever have such feelings now?” 

John bent his dark brows and was silent for a minute or two. 

“I have very much the same sort of feelings,” he said, “the 
chief difference being that I am not a little child now and am 
stronger to bear them. Also I haye made up my mind on cer- 
tain points, and I try to get some comfort out of that. You 
know I am going to be a minister. Well, I mean to serve God 
— if I can’t do it out of love I must do it out of fear — but I will 
do it, however hard it may be or against the grain of my nat- 
ure. You know it is the same with us ; some sons love their 
fathers and get joy out of it ; others are afraid of them ; I sup- 
pose it all depends on character. But if both serve faithfully, a j 
just Father — let alone a merciful — will accept the one as well as 
the other. Don’t you think so?” 

“Jack, I am sorry, but I have no thoughts on such subjects. 
There is nothing in my mind that answers to them. The idea 
of God, either in love or in fear, is not woven in and out of my 
brain as it seems to be in yours, and I am glad of it. I could 
not stand up under it !” 

“I don’t know that I stand up under it,” answered John, a 


LIKE AND UNLIKE. 


37 


little ruefully, “but when you have done wrong, Gilbert, does 
not that weigh on your conscience and take a little of the sun- 
shine out of your world?” 

This talk took place in the seclusion of the “ spare -room. ” 
John occupied the easy -chair as being “ the guest of the night, ” 
as his cousin phrased it, and Gilbert had perched himself upon 
the table beside him with a palpable disregard of means to end 
which would have called forth a severe admonition from his 
aunt, had she known it. 

In their relative positions John had a full view of Gilbert’s 
face, and as he asked this question he looked up into it with a 
curious anxiety. 

Gilbert smiled down upon him brightly. “I do not think I 
ever felt in that way in my life, ” he said. “ I have been dread- 
fully sorry sometimes when I have hurt my mother, but I was 
never. Jack, on such terms of acquaintance with the Supreme 
Being as to suppose He would take any notice of my peccadil- 
loes. ” 

“ Oh, don’t jest !” was John’s passionate answer ; “ if my mother 
heard you ! But then again you are so different from me — you 
are something like that young man who seemed to have found 
it so easy to have kept all the commandments— the one tliat 
Jesus loved — although he would not follow Him. Goodness 
doesn’t come so easy to me.” His head drooped. 

In the twinkling of an eye Gilbert was beside him on the arm 
of the easy-chair, and had thrown his arm round his cousin’s 
neck. 

“Jack,” he cried, “you have a trick of running yourself down 
that is enough to break a fellow’s heart ! Don’t you see there 
is not depth enough in me for such feelings as you have to 
grow? Why, all the saints who have left their names behind 
them, Lovola, St. Francis, and the rest, suffered just as you do 
from this sort of divine discontent. I, Jack, I can never get 
my eyes higher than dear old mother earth !” 

John Cartwright shrank a little from the sound of the names 
his cousin quoted. He knew all about their lives, for his thirst 
for every kind of spiritual investigation had led him to make 
a study of them. But he regarded with anxious misgivings the 
fact that men misled by so many grievous errors had stirred the 
fires of his intense enthusiasm higher than they had ever 
mounted before. 

“John,” continued Gilbert, pressing closer to him, “would 


38 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


you like to know what my ambition is that swallows me up as 
religion does you? But it is a religion! We have been to- 
gether all these weeks and I have never yet shown you what I 
love best in the world — what is my world that knits body and 
soul together and makes life worth living. I am parched up 
with the desire of it, and yet I have forborne — being afraid 1” 

He sprang up and, going to his trunk, which still stood in a 
corner of the room, he knelt down on the floor to unlock it, 
taking the key, as John observed, from his breast-pocket, and 
drew forth a small violin enclosed in a case. There was some- 
thing in the expression of Gilbert’s face and the air with which 
he handled it that made John smile, though at the same time 
it affected him with a curious sense of pathos ; it was like a 
mother fondling a beloved child or a devotee approaching a 
shrine. 

He unlocked the case and drew out the instrument. 

“ I have not opened it since my beloved died, ” he said in a 
voice of tremulous excitement. “It will be horribly out of 
tune. This climate too !” he touched the strings tentatively. 

The contact was irresistible ; his nerves thrilled to it ; a line 
as of Are shot through his frame. He placed it in position, each 
movement of hand and head conveying a caress, and began to 
tune it. 

John sat and watched him intently. His ignorance of music 
— outside the chapel organ — was complete, and he thought the 
noise excruciating, scarcely understanding that the process was 
a necessary preliminary to performance. 

But presently it ceased, and, with a change of posture and 
expression and a brief pause of consideration, Gilbert drew the 
bow across the strings and began to play. 

He was still an immature musician, but he had been taught 
by a master, and the instrument of wliich he was the happy 
possessor was of exquisite tone. But the spirit of the true artist 
was vital in Gilbert Yorke, and as he played a fragment from 
the Berlioz symphony, which came easiest to his Angers, John 
sat spellbound ; it seemed as if a human voice charged with di- 
vine meaning was looking from secret recesses of being, feel- 
ings and perceptions of which he had no knowledge before. 
It was less a revelation than a new birth, and was unquestionably 
the keenest sensuous enjoyment he had ever known. 

'When Gilbert suddenly stopped, the voice in which his cousin 
asked him to go on startled him by its strangeness. 


I 


LIKE AND UNLIKE. 39 

I “’Not to-night, old fellow, it knocks me over!” 

He put down the fiddle gently and threw himself across the 
I bed, covering his face with his hands and struggling to master 
the sobs that rose in his throat. 

The last ear that had listened to him had been his mother’s, 
already grown dull with the near approach of death, but with 
the passionate sympathy that bound them together still throb- 
I bing in the fainting heart. 

' “You know your calling,” she had said ; “be true to it, dear- 
est!” And how did things look to him now? What blankness 
of darkness had gathered across his path ; what a vista of 
thwarted faculty and incongruous, if not impossible, duty 
opened before him ! 

To continue to draw the breath of life in Coplestone, shut 
out from Heaven’s sunshine and all the glory with which man’s 
intellect had brightened the world elsewhere — to order his spirit 
to the routine and pious observance of Wesley College, to the 
end of fitting himself for the post of confidential clerk and cor- 
respondent in his uncle’s shop, with every natural instinct 
checked, and the aspiration which had been to him as the very 
breath of life contemned and stamped out I 

He rose from the bed and, pushing back the hair from his 
knitted forehead, looked at his cousin almost wildly. 

“Jack,” he said hoarsely, “it is of no use! I have tried, and 
I can’t do it. ” 

“Don’t,” answered the other kindly. “I did not mean to 
press you, and I can quite understand that it hurts you. Onl5^ — 
I never knew such music was to be got out of a fiddle before. ” 

“You don’t understand! I mean that I cannot go on here. 
My unde— I almost wish he were not so kind to me — must not 
go on paying rnoney for an education that will do me no good, 
for I shall never be able to turn it to account. There is only 
one thing I am fit for — if I am not a fiddler, Jack, I am less 
than nothing !” 

“But, you are that already,” was Jack’s ruminating answer, 
“and no rational being could make a life’s business of fid- 
dling.” 

“No,” cried the other eagerly, “life is scarcely long enough 
for that, and I am a fiddler in the same sense that a child be- 
ginning to crawl is an athlete. Poor old Jack, how much you 
know and how much you don’t know! I verily believe you 
never heard an opera — perhaps a quartet — in your life !” 


40 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


“I not only never did, but I expect I never shall. Till now I 
never knew what music was to some people — of what is in — 
oneself. But any way, Gilbert, I don’t see any room in my life 
for that. ” 

“And in mine there is no room for anything else. I am in a 
fever. Jack ; I have it in me to utter the thoughts of great mu- 
sicians who found this language for them. I mean I have it in 
me, if the chance is given me. And I must have the chance. 
Now I am like a child with an impediment in his speech who 
is sent to deliver a message, or a man whose brain is on fire 
and yet can’t speak the language of the people he wants to en- 
lighten. I can play a little — a little — a little, but oh !” and he 
leaned his cheek against the violin as he spoke, “how much lies 
inside here that I have not the skill to bring out !” 

“And where does one get this skill?” asked John. 

“ There is a good conservatoire at Naples and one better still 
at Leipzig, but the terms are high, and one has to live besides — 
only I can live on a crust ! Jack, the thought of it — of this 
being made the business of my life — of going to bed dead-beat 
with rigorous practice in an atmosphere of musical training, to 
get up to the same thing the next morning, makes me faint 
and sick with desire. Do you know what I should think the 
prize of life? To be first violin in one of Beethoven’s great 
symphonies in Paris or London. ” 

John Cartwright rubbed his forehead meditatively ; the ideal 
seemed lacking in what he held essential, but then he was pre- 
pared to own that his range of thought was limited. 

“ I feel quite sure, ” he said at last, “ that my mother would 
never give her consent to such a scheme. She would never 
think it right, and my father never goes against her in such 
things. Don’t you think you could make up your mind to some 
other mode of life and take this as a diversion by the way? If 
you went abroad, Gilbert — ” he stopped, then added : “ Of course 
one ought not to think of oneself.”” 

“ Then I, for one, am always doing what I ought not, ” cried 
Gilbert. “ All I live for is to please myself, or at least to try 
and do so. At the same time I have no objection to please you 
too. ” 

He came and sat down again on the arm of John’s chair and 
leaned affectionately against him. 

“If I went away — well, you would miss me a little, and your 
life is not too bright. Is that it. Jack?” 


UNDER THE ROOF-TREE OF THE CHACE. 


41 


“That is it, but I would not keep you at home for it — if, that 
is, it was the right thing for you to do. ” 

He got up, stretched himself, and yawned. “I am tired, Gil- 
bert, and will go to bed. Mother wouldn’t approve of our sit- 
ting up so late. ” 

Gilbert caught his hand. 

“Promise me you will help me all you can! That is, if I 
have courage enough to try for this thing. ” 

John pulled away his hand with a returning touch of sullen- 
ness. “ I will not promise, for I am not sure what I ought to 
do. Good- night. ” 

He went to his bare room and, sitting down, read with an 
odd sort of dogged persistence the portion of Scripture and the 
section of Bogatsky’s “Golden Treasury,” which formed his 
evening task. Then he undressed quickly, turned out the gas, 
and knelt down in the darkness to say his prayers. 

They were soon over, for there was a stern integrity about 
John Cartwright which abhorred forms as such, and he was not 
in a praying mood, as he said to himself grimly. 

As he lay down he heard the sound of Gilbert’s violin, sup- 
pressed and whispered sounds as if he did not dare to let it 
speak aloud, but with the same moving appeal in it like a 
human voice. 

John kept quite still and listened intently ; then a sudden rush 
of feeling submerged his late obstinate reluctance. He jumped 
out of bed, ran to his cousin’s room, and knocked at the door. 

Gilbert opened it, and faced with surprise the white-robed 
figure whose dark face was lit up with tender shining eyes. 

“ Just a word before I go to sleep, ” he said. “ I have altered 
my mind. I will help your plan all I can — we will persuade 
father before mother comes home. ” 

And he was gone before Gilbert could answer. 


CHAPTER VI. 

UNDER THE ROOF -TREE OF THE CHACE. 

The qualities which win social popularity for a man are not 
those which best stand the wear and tear of human life. 

Cyril Denison had been singularly gracious and winning so 
long as he was young, handsome, and in good health, with pos- 
session of all those good gifts which position and wealth supply. 


42 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


But on the death of his father he found the hereditary estate 
insolvent, two generations of high play at cards and speculation 
on the turf having conduced to this result. 

It is possible, even under these circumstances, where the prop- 
erty is large and lawyers compliant, to protract the situation 
by shifting and re-arranging the existing mortgages so as still 
to produce fitful and, it must be conceded, delusive supplies. 

For a time the new heir kept his place in the gay world, 
eking out his pecuniary deficiencies by the resources which 
had ruined his father and grandfather, and faithfully fulfilled, 
with a little occasional fiattery of success, the same function 
for himself. In due relentless course, the hour struck when 
Cyril Denison knew himself to be without the means of exis- 
tence, taking his estimate of its requirements and putting on 
one side, as he did, the alternative of earning his daily bread. 
What was he to do? 

The Chace was let to a retired tradesman of fabulous wealthy 
who was the father of a son working hard in a ship-brokers’ 
office — according to the paternal theory that a man to be worth 
his salt must climb the commercial ladder from the lowest 
rung — and a daughter who kept house for him, being a wid- 
ower, and who was a very pretty and attractive girl. 

In his extremity Cyril Denison, who had hitherto shunned 
his i)aternal home, accepted his tenant’s oft-renewed invitation 
to visit it, and without much difficulty succeeded in making 
Miss Harcourt fall in love with him. She had led a very dull, 
secluded life quite outside “society,” and had never before come 
into daily contact with a man so accomplished and attractive. 
She was therefore not only prepared to give herself away te 
him, but to feel honoured and grateful that he would accept the 
boon, and in answer to his discreet misgivings encouraged him 
to lay his suit before her father with the assurance that “he 
had never denied her anything in his life. ” 

Cyril did so, delicately suggesting as equipoise to the trades- 
man’s money-bags the superiority of his own birth and connec- 
tions and the devoted affection that he had conceived and — 
inspired. 

Mr. Harcourt was of a phlegmatic, temper, and he neither raged 
nor swore, but he conveyed in unmistakable words his opinion 
that the young man was no other than a swindler to have abused 
his hospitality in this fashion, and ordered him to quit the house 
on the spot. He spoke strongly to his daughter, but without 


UNDER THE ROOF-TREE OF THE CHACE. 


43 


anger, as he regarded her in the light of a victim he was as 
able as willing to save, and relied upon her yielding this point 
as she had been accustomed to yield others on the few occasions 
when their wills had clashed. 

But he made a miscake. He did not estimate aright the 
strength of a young girl’s romantic passion, nor the unlimited 
capacity for eating humble-pie which impecuniosity confers on 
some men. 

The lovers ran away and were married, each strengthening 
the confidence of the other that forgiveness would follow ; Cy- 
ril’s position, indeed, being so desperate that he regarded the 
venture as the cast of a die. 

Forgiveness never followed. Mr. Harcourt refused to see his 
daughter and gave up The Chace, paying down the forfeit for 
his half -expired lease, which Cyril Denison returned to the old 
man with a last spurt of expiring manhood. Probably he be- 
lieved that tlie father would relent, and he and his wife took 
possession of the family mansion (in default of any other home) 
under conditions of inadequacy very different from the young 
wife’s previous experience as her father’s housekeeper. 

A very bitter and sordid experience followed. Some shreds 
and patches of income were still to be extracted from park, 
home pastures, and gardens, and Mr. Harcourt settled upon his 
daughter the sum of £200 a year, under very hard and fast con- 
ditions, in order, as he put it, “that no child of his should go 
to the workhouse. ” 

Each of them, accustomed to lavish expenditure, now found 
themselves almost without money, which means that the sharp- 
est touchstone of character was applied and that neither could 
sustain the test. The man became bitter and sarcastic, bearing 
hard upon the very qualities in the wife which he had pro- 
nounced adorable in the lover. 

Sometimes, indeed, he ceased to be a gentleman, but that hap- 
pened when one servant after another vanished from the dilapi- 
dated household, or the pressure of tradesmen’s bills became too 
heavy for flesh and blood to stand. 

Mrs. Denison, on her side, developed no exceptional qualities 
of patience or magnanimity ; she was as disappointed as her 
husband, and most of all in her husband. It is useless to sx)ecu- 
late what she might have done if he had continued to love her, 
or, perhaps we should say, had ever loved her at all. He nei- 
ther loved her nor pretended to do so, and he resented her petu- 


44 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


lant complaints over the fate he himself found so hard. He left 
her to herself a good deal and passed the periods of his absence 
in London or Paris, finding funds in that mysterious manner 
v^liich seems possible to any man who still keeps a hold over 
his hereditary acres, not to mention the resources of the turf 
and the card -table. 

The union did not last long. In the second year of their mar- 
riage Mrs. Denison died after giving birth to a girl — the last 
wrong that she was able to commit. 

After his daughter’s decease Mr. Harcourt transferred the al- 
lowance he had made her to the child, who was a vigorous baby 
and likely to live, and took occasion to assure the father that 
this was the beginning and end of what he should do for her. 
Also the heir-at-law, whom Cyril Denison scarcely knew but 
cordially detested, for he added to other provocations the facts 
that he was a rich man and the father of a son, offered an ad- 
justment of a certain portion of the property — which was 
strictly entailed on heirs male — by which a slender income for 
his kinsman would be provided without injury to his own in- 
terests. He attached to this arrangement, which the poverty 
of the other compelled him to accept, that Cyril should insure 
his life heavily for the benefit of his daughter, and by so doing 
exonerated his indignant beneficiary from the slightest obliga- 
tion of gratitude. Cyril Denison, once more a free man, fled 
from The Chace, leaving his daughter to be cared for by others, 
and led a wandering, irregular life, only returning thither when 
stricken by disease. 

- The life which little Margery Denison led in a corner of the 
spacious old mansion, which its impoverished owner had de- 
clared should never be let again, was not a dreary one. She had 
the good fortune to have a faithful nurse, and the companion- 
ship with her equals and contemporaries which she never knew, 
she never missed. Her amusements were adequate, and she 
found them for the most part out-of-doors. The reduced estab- 
lishment included an old groom who had been in the family 
from a boy and was now content to make himself serviceable as 
a man -of- all- work ; he kept the child supplied with as many of 
the sylvan creatures she adored as could by any art or skill be 
transformed into domestic pets. He taught her to ride, an old 
pony and a cart-horse being still to be found in the stables, and 
it was almost pathetic to see Dick Gardner lumbering on the 
latter beside or behind his imperious little mistress, who soon 


UNDER THE ROOF-TREE OF THE CHACE. 45 

learned to torment him by outstripping him. The good fellow 
had always a secret shame to swallow, remembering the family 
glories of his youth. 

When Margery was about seven years old, her aunt, Mrs. Suth- 
erland, Mrs. Denison's only sister, returned from India a child- 
less widow, and proposed to her brother that she should make 
her home at The Chace and play the part of mother to her ne- 
glected little niece. Her own income was not large, but it 
would more than suffice to meet the increased household ex- 
penses which this arrangement would make necessary. 

Cyril Denison was not so blind to his own interests as to ob- 
ject, though his interest in his daughter was of the slightest, 
the child being practically unknown to him. 

We are not quite sure that it was the best thing that could 
have happened to Margery. Mrs. Sutherland “had her views” in 
respect to the training of children, which consisted chiefly in the 
notion that, so far as was humanly possible, infancy and child- 
hood should be passed without a tear, in order to leave the in- 
dividual a bright record to look back upon. Consequently, in 
order to secure this result for Margery, already sufficiently self- 
willed, she was allowed to have her own way at precisely the 
time when the rapid growth of intelligence would have made 
judicious discipline fruitful in good results. 

When, as soon became necessary, a governess was engaged for 
the bright, engaging, but turbulent little girl, she was selected 
more from her reputation for kindness of heart than for more 
serviceable qualities. She was, in fact, neither capable nor 
conscientious, and she adopted her employer’s laissez faire pol- 
icy with alacrity. For the next five years she fulfilled or rather 
neglected her function ; Margery learnt just as little as she 
pleased, but even that was more — for her mind was vigorous 
and her curiosity alert — than Miss Dawson cared to impart. 
Indeed, she often found herself so signally at fault that, to es- 
cape from unwelcome pressure, she allowed the child the run of 
the library, quite indifferent to the possible results of indiscrim- 
inate reading. 

There was, however, one point of efficiency in this scramb- 
ling education : the governess was a good musician, and Mar- 
gery, who inherited her father’s aptitudes in this direction, 
was an eager and satisfactory pupil. The accumulated litera- 
ture which filled the shelves of the library, and the fine old 
“Broadwood” which stood in its midst, were the most stimu- 


46 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


lating influences of her life ; while the fond indulgence of her 
aunt, if it failed to elicit that reverent affection which is twice 
blessed in its influence, at least softened and won her heart. 

. When she was about twelve years old Mr. Denison paid one of 
his flying visits to his home. A dim sense of responsibility 
toward his almost unknown daugliter had made itself felt, and 
also the residence of his sister at The Chace made things more 
comfortable. The conclusion reached by his investigation was 
that Margery was grossly ignorant for her age, that her temper 
was unmanageable, and her manners bad ; the only redeeming 
points being that the girl promised to be handsome and had a 
good ear for music. 

Miss Dawson was dismissed, and for the next few years a suc- 
cession of more or less capable and accomplished women under- 
took and relinquished the charge of Miss Denison’s education. 
The results were not eminently satisfactory. 

At fifteen, Margery might still be regarded as a spoilt girl, 
wayward and imperious, which is only saying that, having 
been subjected to the extremes of neglect and indulgence, she 
had not by any miracle of individuality escaped the mischiev- 
ous consequences. She was naturally generous and high-minded, 
but she had missed in her early training the inculcation of the 
divine idea of Duty. 

It is a seed that takes root kindly in the tender soil of the 
heart of a child, but it is more difficult to make it grow when 
that same soil has been pressed down and hardened by the 
• ti’ead of the passing years. Margery’s notion of life was to 
get as much iDleasure out of it as it would yield, and the ideal 
of abstinence or self-denial had no attraction for her. Whether 
she were relieving distress and glowing with the delight of in- 
dulged sympathy, or breathless with rapture under the spell of 
music, or lost to her own identity over romance or poem, her 
outlook went no farther than her personal gratification. 

At this period Cyril Denison, stricken by the disease which 
was ultimately to destroy him, returned to The Chace and made 
his home there once more. He was a miserable and embittered 
man, and found in the magnificent vitality and health of his 
daughter a cause of irritation and annoyance. 

Her education and mannem still appeared to him highly un- 
satisfactory, and when his doctors suggested that he should win- 
ter in Florence, he proposed that his daughter and sister should 
accompany him, and that masters should be found for the girl 


UNDER THE ROOF-TREE OP THE CHACE. 


47 


who might do something to remedy her deficiencies. The bene- 
fit both to himself and to Margery was considerable, and the 
experiment was repeated the following winter. 

It was during this residence in Florence that the Denisons 
had become acquainted with Christina Yorke and her son. 

Mrs. Sutherland had first made her acquaintance in the char- 
acter of patroness, having seen some specimens of her superb 
embroidery, but it afterwards became known to her that she 
was the widow of Colonel Yorke, with the story of whose mes- 
alliance Mrs. Sutherland w^as naturally acquainted. This discov- 
ery induced a feeling of modified equality, and she was quite 
willing to extend her good will to the handsome and gifted boy 
she found in such close attendance upon his mother, for the 
fact that his grandfather was their distinguished neighbor. Sir 
Owen Yorke of Rookhurst, could scarcely fail to be taken into 
account in his favour. 

She also, following the bent of her indulgent and kindly nat- 
ure, allowed Margery not only to be her companion in these 
frequent visits to Christina Yorke, but to form an intimacy 
with Gilbert much closer and more sympathetic than she was 
aware of, for both boy and girl found in each other that cordial 
camaraderie of feeling which neither had known before. Mrs. 
Sutherland herself, being singularly impressionable to external 
charm, treated Gilbert with caressing familiarity, frequently 
taking him home with them or sanctioning his joining them in 
their walks or excursions. On the strength of his youthful 
promise as a musician she even ventured to introduce him to 
Cyril Denison, who never gave himself any concern how his 
womenkind spent their time ; he did not feel a spark of inter- 
est in the local association, but consented to hear him play, with 
his usual cynical indifference a little softened by the lad’s un- 
doubted talent, and forthwith dismissed him from his mind. 

Such had been the incidents of Margery Denison’s life up to 
the time of her meeting Gilbert Yorke and John Cartwright on 
the Eccleshall Road. 

Almost as soon as she had taken off her walking things, she 
went to relate the adventure to her aunt, confident of her fellow- 
feeling, but she found, to her vexation, that her father had 
forestalled her, and, moreover, that he had repeated his threat of 
sending her to school, not as the result of momentary impa- 
tience, but of deliberate purpose. 

“And perhaps, my dear,” continued her aunt, whose judg 


48 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


ment was always at the service of the last speaker, “ it will be 
as well. You are nearly sixteen and cannot possibly be pre- 
sented for the next two years, granting that we can afford a 
season in London. What are you going to do all that time? 
After all, your education has been rather a poor scrambling 
affair, and two years in Paris will do wonders for you. None 
but ladies of the highest distinction are received by Mme. 
Coligny. ” 

“Woudn’t it be more to the point to be told that none but 
professors of the highest distinction were received,” Margery 
retorted saucily. “I am quite sure association won’t be enough 
for me.” 

“Oh, that is a matter of course! Think, Madge, what a mu- 
sician you will come home — your poor father declares no Eng- 
lishman is able to teach the piano. You will know how to 
please him, dear. ” 

A smile touched the girl’s lips that was lamentably bitter for 
her years. “Is there only one side to the parental contract?” 
she asked. “I mean, is not my father bound to please me 
sometimes? Did you ever know him try?” 

“My dear!” 

Margery went and sat down on the stool at her aunt’s feet 
and leaned her lovely head against the kind lady’s knees. 

“Don’t scold me,” she said. “Where’s the use of preaching 
maxims of duty when the spirit of it is dead? I don’t think it 
was ever alive. Poor me ! My mother fled away from me as 
soon as I was born, and my father has never forgiven me for 
being born at all. Who has ever loved me but you, auntie — a 
little?” 

“A little!” 

“Ah, well, things go by comparison, and my mind is full of 
the Yorkes. Do you remember how that sweet woman used to 
sit back in her chair, with her embroidery needle in her poor 
thin fingers, and look at her son? If God had spared my mother 
and she had looked at me like that, I would not have asked Him 
for anything else. As it is ” 

The girl raised herself and her eyes widened and hashed. 

“As it is,” she repeated, “I must have some one to love me 
before I die, or I shall kill myself in despair. ” 

Mrs. Sutherland laughed a little weakly. She was soon at her 
wits’ end when Margery was in one of her wild moods, as she 
called them. 


UNDER THE ROOF-TREE OF THE CHACE. 


49 


“There will be plenty, my dear, to do that,” was her answer. 
“ The despair you will find to be all on the other side. ” 

Margery laughed too, but with scornful derision. 

“Lovers ! I don’t mean that, for they must be made of differ- 
ent stuff from what I have seen or heard about. Besides, 
auntie, that kind of despair nowadays is kept for heiresses — 
a poor girl never has the luck to evoke it. ” 

Her aunt shook her head. “My dear, you catch your father’s 
sneering tone, and no wonder! But don’t do it, Madge! In 
my view, nothing spoils a girl’s prospects like a sharp tongue.” 

“ But I am so poorly endowed otherwise that Mother Nature 
provided me with that weapon in self-defence,” replied the girl 
wistfully. “Consider, auntie, in what terms my father often 
describes me ” 

Mrs. Sutherland patted the upturned face affectionately. 

“ Nonsense, child, we will not consider ; it is just the irrita- 
bility of disease. Two years with Mme. Coligny will make 
you all that he can desire. ” 

Margery pressed a little closer to her knees and put the kind 
hand that had taken hers against her lips. 

“If I promise to submit like a good child and go to Paris, 
will you in your turn do something for me? I want it very 
much. ” She stopped, but went on, as her aunt did not answer at 
once. “Let us go and see Gilbert Yorke — you and I — as we 
used to do in Florence ! I had no chance to-day even to tell 
him how grieved I was that his mother was dead.^’ 

“My dear, the thing is impossible; you should have heard 
your father?” 

“ But he need never know ! He would never guess we could 
be so wicked. ” 

Mrs. Sutherland professed to be shocked. “My dear, ” she said, 
“there must indeed have been something wrong in your bring- 
ing up. You make me feel afraid. ” 

“ All I want, ” returned Margery, shrugging her shoulders, “ is 
to do good by stealth. Is not pity for poor Gilbert Yorke worth 
more than fear of my father?” 

But for once she pleaded in vain. Apart from obvious objec- 
tions, Mrs. Sutherland had too vivid a recollection of the recent 
scene with her brother to risk the chance of his displeasure. 
She understood what Margery did not : how strenuously his 
mind was fixed on his daughter’s making a successful mar- 
riage, the word including only two requirements, wealth and 
4 


50 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


position. Hence the* fierceness of his opposition to any infiu- 
ence that might run counter to his hopes. 

The result reached by Margery’s importunity was simply to 
confirm her aunt in the conviction that Mr. Denison’s plan of 
scholastic exile was the best for all concerned. 


CHAPTER VH. 

CASTLE STREET CHAPEL. 

To this scheme of sending her to school Margery submitted, 
somewhat to the surprise of both her father and aunt. 

Cyril Denison had some personal knowledge of Mme. Coligny, 
a woman of personal and mental distinction in the soundest 
application of the phrase, and as her duties brought her to Eng- 
land at Christmas, it was arranged that she should come to The 
Chace to make the acquaintance of her pupil and take her back 
to Paris with her. 

The intervening time was short, and Mrs. Sutherland was en- 
grossed with wardrobe arrangements for her niece, a premature 
sense of security leading her to leave Margery a good deal to 
herself. 

One day it happened that the - incident was repeated which 
had occurred with her father. She and her aunt had met Gil- 
bert Yorke when driving upon a sequestered country road, and, 
as before, the girl had eagerly pulled the check -string to stop 
the carriage. Mrs. Sutherland interfered sharply to countermand 
the order, but it was unnecessary, for Gilbert had hurried past 
with a low bow of recognition. 

Margery, whose vision was that of a hawl^, did not fail to 
observe that he had changed colour as he saw them, and that 
the look that he had cast towards them was one that she de- 
scribed as of “ reproachful indignation. ” 

“ Have you forgotten, ” she asked, in a curious suppressed voice, 
“that it was only last year that you encouraged and petted him 
in Florence, and treated him like one of ourselves ? What must 
he think of us?” 

Mrs. Sutherland sighed uneasily. “ It seems cruel, as a good 
many necessary social restrictions do, but I am not my own 
mistress. He has evidently learnt his lesson, dear, and we must 
submit to do the same. ” 

To this Margery made no answer, but her desire to have speech 


CASTLE STREET CHAPEL. 


51 


again with Gilbert Yorke before she left home strengthened 
into a purpose. 

The next time that she saw him was the Sunday before her 
departure. Mme. Coligny had arrived a few days previously, 
and had already won golden opinions by her mingled tact, 
sweetness, and intelligence. She was proud of the fact that she 
came of a good Huguenot stock, and it had happened that dur- 
ing a discussion with her host she had expressed a desire to 
assist at a religious service of one of the great dissenting 
bodies. 

The result was that the Denison carriage stopped on the Sun- 
day following at the gates of Castle Street Chapel. It was the 
first Sunday in the New Year, and the weather was clear and 
cold ; at the moment of their entrance a burst of wintry sun- 
shine shone through the undimmed transparencies of the great 
ugly sashed windows, revealing at a glance every nook and cor- 
ner of the building. The pews were narrow and high, and each 
was fitted with comfortable cushions and hassocks according 
to the taste or means of the occupier, so that there was no uni- 
formity of colour or treatment. The pulpit, behind which 
stood the organ, was exalted upon a low platform on which 
benches were fixed for the accommodation of the ofiicers of the 
church and the leading singers ; the front being occupied by a 
plain communion table covered with a fair damask cloth on 
which were already set the sacred vessels. 

The chapel was completely without charm or attraction ex- 
cept that of the obvious adaptation of means to end, for it was 
large, commodious, and serviceable ; and what might belong to 
it from long and honourable association. 

The ladies from The Chace were received and welcomed by 
an officer of the church with a cordiality that could scarcely 
fail to bring a sense of pleasure with it, and which was quite 
independent of their social standing. It seemed as if they con- 
ferred upon him a personal favour by placing themselves under 
the means of grace. The chapel, including the galleries which 
fianked three sides of the building, was almost full as they 
entered, so that there was some difiiculty in finding them places. 
When this was done Margery was quick to perceive that the 
opposite pew was occupied by the Cartwright family. The 
little bustle of their arrival had naturally excited attention ; Gil- 
bert Yorke had looked quickly up, and the girl saw his face 
flush and his eyes brighten. The play of expression, however. 


;52 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


passed away immediately, and was succeeded by an anxious 
and weary look that seemed as if it had become habitual to his 
features. i 

Neither Mrs. Cartwright nor her son, who sat beside her, ap- 
peared to notice them ; the preliminary hymn had just been 
announced, and John’s soul as well as his gaze was concentrated 
on his hymn-book. 

The fine and unfamiliar words, sung in unison by the whole 
congregation, challenged even Margery’s attention ; there was 
the ring of true poetry in them wedded to that note of intense 
spiritual aspiration which has made the name of Charles Wesley 
fragrant in the memory of all worshippers of God, be they who 
they may : 

“Thou hidden love of God, whose height, 

Whose depth unfathomed no man knows, 

I see from far Thy beauteous light. 

Inly I sigh for Thy repose. 

My heart is pained, nor can it be at rest 
Till it find rest in Thee. ” 

At this moment John Cartwright looked up, and the girl, 
who was watching the whole family with eagle curiosity, could 
hardly persuade herself, as she caught the aspect of exaltation 
in his face, that he was the same heavy -featured lad who had 
stood lumpishly on the Seamoor Road waiting for his cousin to 
join him. She thought he looked at that moment of the stuff 
of which heroes and martyrs are made. 

During the long service which followed, and to which her 
alertness of intellect inclined her to listen and her girlish arro- 
gance to judge, she found much that startled and displeased 
her, more particularly in the audible ejaculations with which 
some of the audience vented, as if under irresistible impulse, 
their devout acquiescence or thanksgiving. 

But now and again a phrase in the prayer or a sentence in 
the sermon, delivered by an earnest grey -haired minister, struck 
across her mind as wdth the sudden white light of conviction, 
revealing depths she had never suspected before, and from 
which she turned away her eyes. It chiefly amused and inter- 
ested her to watch other people. There was that in Gilbert 
Yorke’s posture and expression which showed, to one who knew 
him so well as Margery, that his mind was far away and that 
he made not the slightest effort to follow what was going on. 
Neither the deep spirituality of the prayer nor the searching 


A girl’s venture. 


53 


exhortations of the sermon, barbed with the sharp arrows of a 
I New Year’s appeal, reached his heart or won his ear. 

Sometimes the face was sad and sometimes illuminated, but 
it was hj the force of personal rumination only. 

Once during the protracted service she caught Mrs. Cart- 
wright’s eyes fixed on his face with an expression in which 
son*ow and anger seemed at strife, but the sensitive Gilbert felt 
it instantly, and as he glanced uneasily toward her it was 
quickly withdrawn. 

“The poor boy looks unhappy — astray — like me!” said Mar- 
gery to herself. “ If my wits do not fail me I will see him yet 
before I go. I have three days of grace !” 

The service was over and the crowded congregation had risen 
to disperse. Mrs. Cartwright, with proud humility, was re- 
sponding to Mrs. Sutherland’s gracious recognition, while, to 
her secret vexation, her husband pressed fussily forward with 
the offer to see if their carriage were in waiting. 

In the crush Margery was for a moment separated from her 
companions, and casting an eager glance behind her saw that 
Gilbert had obstinately withdrawn himself beyond reach of 
voice or touch of hand. 

But John Cartwright was close by her side ; it was her for- 
lorn hope. 

“ I am going away on Thursday for two years, ” she said in a 
low whisper into his startled ear, he hardly believing that she 
could be addressing him, “and I want to say good-bye to Gil- 
bert Yorke. Can I trust you to manage it? I often run with 
the dogs after lunch in the Idersleigh Meadows. ” 

Before he could rally from the shock, Marger}" Denison was 
gone. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

A GIRL’S VENTURE. 

Margery Denison, looking at Gilbert Yorke as he sat in his 
pew at Castle Street Chapel, had thought he looked pale and 
ill, and indeed he had been passing through a rough experience 
lately. 

He was of the temper when the action of the mind upon the 
body is instant and direct, and the circumstances in which he 
was now placed he could not persuade himself to accept. 


54 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


The request that he should be allowed to make music his pro 
fession had been duly presented to Mr. Cartwright and strin- 
gently refused. Whatever his own views might have been, a 
sense of loyalty to his absent wife would have made him repu- 
diate the idea. 

Moreover, the passion with which Gilbert pleaded his own 
cause, and the wildness, as it appeared, of some of his asser- 
tions, induced in the good man’s mind a feeling of alarm, the 
more so when his own son, to whom such a notion ought to 
have been obnoxious, undertook to plead in its behalf. 

Mr. Cartwright began to believe that his wife had been more 
far seeing than himself, and that an element, if not of positive 
evil, at least of mischief and discomfiture, had been introduced 
into their midst. It may have been owing to the limitations of 
his mind or to the natural sequence of things, that the very 
qualities which had first attracted him to his nephew — his 
power over words, his grace of action, his mental eagerness 
and zest — began to chafe and weary him. He had also a double 
sense of responsibility in his wife’s absence, which at this time 
had nearly reached its close. ‘"Lad,” he answered, with unu- 
sual severity, dropping a little into the vernacular in his ex- 
citement, and holding up his hand to check the flow of poor 
Gilbert’s speech, ’ll have none of it, and thee hadst best to 
hold thy tongue! John, I’m ashamed of thee! What wouldst 
th’ mother say?” 

John remained silent but unblushing under the rebuke. Gil- 
bert made one of his little expressive gestures ; his face was not 
only white but drawn with pain. 

“I see,” he said, “I shall never escape that — her influence! 
It shuts me in like a stone wall. ” 

“ And a good thing for thee, Gilbert Yorke, if it does ; t’will 
prevent thee bursting out of bounds. A fiddler indeed !” 

And Mr. Cartwright, with whom discretion was always the 
better part of valour, walked out of the room to show that the 
incident was closed. 

A few days after this, the holidays began, which deprived 
Gilbert of the chief interest of his days, and then just before 
Christmas Day Mrs. Cartwright had returned, clad in deep 
mourning for her father. 

There was an unusual softness in her manner when she first 
spoke to her son, and Gilbert, alive at every point of perception, 
though her face beautiful as she bent over him. It seemed 


A girl’s venture. 


55 


strange to him that no embrace was given or offered after so 
long an absence, not knowing the strange cx)mplication of feel- 
ing that withheld the mother from all forms of self -disclosure. 

His own presence alone would have been an effectual restraint. 

“ And you, ” she said, when his turn for notice came, “ are you 
quite well?” Her eyes rested on his face kindly, for we cannot 
assist at a death-bed without learning some lessons of humil- 
ity and forbearance. She thought he looked pale and harassed, 
and there was a swell of joy at her heart at this proof that the 
unbroken intercourse of the boys had not resulted in such per- 
fect happiness as she had feared. 

Gilbert turned away his head, for he was in that state of 
mind that he could scarcely bear the unexpected kindness of 
her manner ; if she had kissed him, as his mother had done, 
she would have bound his heart to her forever. 

“ I am well, ” he said, “ and every one has been very kind to 
me but — I am not happy. Ask John. ” 

“ Do you mean me to tell mother what you want, on the spot — 
before she has taken off her things?” was John’s rejoinder. 

“Yes, ” said Mrs. Cartwright, loosening her bonnet and cloak 
and putting them aside, “tell me now — at once!” 

She sat down and looked from one to the other with deep 
anxiety. If her nephew looked ill, her son, now that she ob- 
served him more closely, had an expression of awakened sensi- 
bility which gave her a pang. As his eyes rested on his cousin 
for a moment there was a look of tenderness and pity in them 
such as she never remembered to have seen before. 

“ Tell me now, ” she repeated, in a gentle voice. 

It was John who told the tale of Gilbert’s ambition ; told it 
with such simple directness and yet with such persuasive art 
that Gilbert guessed, for the first time, what powder of advocacy 
lay under his taciturn and hidden manner. He finished by say- 
ing : “ No one can judge properly about this until they have 
heard Gilbert play on his fiddle. Perhaps you will think it 
wrong, mother, but the first time I heard him it seemed like — like 
a new heaven and a new earth 1” 

Gilbert stood with his eyes fastened on his aunt. Instead of 
the stern condemnation he had expected, he saw that she sat 
with her head inclined in an attitude of deep consideration. 
Was it possible that there was hope for him from the very quar- 
ter where he had expected the worst? He stepped forward and 
ventured to touch her hand. 


56 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


“Oh, consent!” he breathed, in a passionate whisper. “It 
rests with you — it will be like life from the dead. ” 

She looked up at him and a little shudder passed through her 
frame. “ You little know, ” she answered, waving him aside as 
she spoke, “ how you tempt me — to do wrong ! To such a scheme 
I dare not give my consent. To one like you it would be certain 
ruin ; no, not another word 1” 

She rose up to leave the room, gathering up her garments in 
her hands. Her feeling was as if she were fleeing from some 
palpable snare of Satan. 

Here was the solution of her difliculty and her sorrow : to 
grant this boy’s passionate prayer and thus deliver herself from 
the influence that was not only jeopardising her son’s eternal 
welfare, but stealing his heart from her. But then again how 
could she answer before God or expect His blessing on her cease- 
less vigilance, were she to traverse her most sacred convictions 
and deliver the other lad over to this life of trivial and reckless 
self-indulgence ? 

And so the last hope had been extinguished, and one day had 
succeeded the other till the message of Margery Denison roused 
him to a state of tremulous excitement. 

“ I was bound to deliver it, ” said John, “and I have done so, 
but I think you ought not to go ; it will bring you into trouble, 
which you will say is nothing, but it may bring her into trouble, 
which is much. You won’t want my opinion, of course, but I 
think she was very wrong to send you such a message. ” 

“Ah !” was the answer, “ it is only those who never do wrong 
whom nobody loves and nobody wants. I should go. Jack, if 
I knew I should get fifty lashes of the cat for recompense !” He 
shuddered and shrank. “That means I would go if I were to 
die for it, for the first half-dozen lashes would break the bond 
between my flesh and spirit. ” 

But the going was a more difficult matter than he had ex- 
pected. Margery’s luncheon hour probably corresponded with 
the early dinner at Elm Lodge, and to be absent from meals was 
regarded as a dereliction of household duty not to be forgiven 
on any plea save illness within Mrs. Cartwright’s recognition. 

On the Monday following, the weather was fine, and Gilbert 
absented himself without hesitation or excuse. To his cousin’s 
representations he answered : “ Say I felt the need of a long 
walk into the country and I have taken my fiddle with me. 
On the moors I shall be free to play to my heart’s content.” 


A GIRL'S VENTURE. 


57 


“Are you going the way of the moors?” asked John. 

Gilbert shrugged his shoulders ; then, unable to escape the 
other’s eyes, answered: “I will extend my walk in that direc- 
tion to save your conscience. Jack. ” 

He came home at dark, worn out and disappointed. He had 
haunted the Idersleigh Meadows for hours and then had ven- 
tured into the vicinity of The Chace, but without catching a 
glimpse of Margery Denison. His excuses were received with 
more readiness than the boys had expected, as any form of ec- 
centricity was held natural to Gilbert. 

He went early to bed to be the better prepared for the next 
day’s venture, which, of course, repetition made more difficult. 

John’s mind was oppressed by anxiety, but he was a little 
relieved when Gilbert suggested that they should start together 
as for a walk, which would cause no surprise, even Mrs. Cart- 
wright recognising a limited right to free action in the Christ- 
mas holidays. 

They walked in company as far as the Idersleigh Meadows. 
It was then twelve o’clock and had begun to snow, and Gilbert 
insisted on John turning back at once. He would be just in 
time for dinner and would escape blame, but he refused to re- 
turn with him, in spite of the obvious consideration he offered 
that no young lady was likely to keep an appointment in a 
snow-storm. 

“Very true. Jack, but I am bound to keep mine. I shall wait 
about here till dark.” 

“And what am I to say when I get home?” 

Gilbert looked perplexed. “What can one say when one is 
between the devil and the deep sea — the latter being the abysses 
of your conscientiousness, Jack? Say I would not come, but 
will explain the reason when I do. ” 

“But how will that be possible?” asked John, with a flash of 
his eyes which was repeated in those of the other. 

“ Old fellow, how little you know me ! Did you dare to fear 
that I would betray Margery ? Say nothing, or what you like ; 
I will answer for mj^self. Good Heavens, Jack, there she is !” 

John looked for a moment or two in the wrong place. But 
his cousin had leaped the gate by which they were standing and 
was running, swift as a deer, across the field toward a slim, 
erect figure in the blurred landscape which represented a young 
girl clad in a heavy mackintosh and round whose feet two or 
three dogs were leaping and yelping. 


58 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


He scarcely knew that he stayed a minute longer to watch the 
meeting, for instinct was stronger than volition, until he saw 
that Gilbert had reached her side, had taken her friendly out- 
stretched hands and put them to his lips wdth one knee almost 
touching the sodden ground. Then John Cartwright turned his 
back upon the pair with a flush on his swarthy cheek, and 
walked home revolving many things. 

Meantime the boy and girl walked side by side up and down 
within the shelter of the hedge, such as it was. Margery had 
an umbrella in her hand which she suffered Gilbert to open 
and hold over her. A little silence had fallen between them 
after the first excitement of meeting ; they each looked at the 
other with a delicious mingling of timidity and triumph. 

Above the ugly cloak, like a flower from its stalk, rose Mar- 
gery’s stately head, crowned by a cap of sealskin which nestled 
close to the shining coils of her tawny hair. The brilliancy of 
her complexion was heightened by exercise and feeling till the 
soft oval cheek glowed like the heart of a damask rose and 
added lustre to the lovely eyes, which beamed upon her compan- 
ion with an unusual expression of softness and kindness. All 
^he lov^es and graces of Cupid’s calendar seemed to hover in the 
dimples of her smiling mouth as she thought of the success of 
her escapade, and read in the very silence of her companion the 
depth of the delight it had conferred. 

“ Oh, ” he said at last, “ how heavenly kind you are ! But 
such weather ! You will take cold — ^they will miss you and seek 
for you. If you should get into trouble ” 

She laughed. “It will not be for the first time, but they 
know my ways. I have not a mackintosh like this for nothing \ 
Often I take out the dogs in the rain, and they really don’t 
watch me as close as you think. I warned them, too, that I 
should defy the weather these last few days of freedom.” 

“You are going away?” Gilbert’s voice had a power of inflec- 
tion that discounted eloquence. 

“ To school — to Paris ! It is their last desperate attempt to 
make a fine lady of me. ” 

“I pray God they may not succeed!” was his answer. “If 
they do — you will forget me.” 

“And perhaps I shall do that even if they fail!” she said 
archly. “But I will not tease you. You know I liked you very 
much and your sweet mother still more. Tell me about her — 
that is what I am come for. I am so sorry for you ; who knows,. 


A girl’s venture. 


59 


Bertie, what it is to lose a mother like her who never had 
one ?” 

He caught her hand again in a passion of gratitude and grief. 
But he had much of the Italian’s horror of the death-bed and 
the funeral chamber, and shrank from detail. 

“She suffered so long before she died,” he said, ‘ that I was 
glad when death came and set her free. As for me, I have 
never been quite alive since — we lived so close she could not die 
alone. ” 

He looked straight before him with an aspect of incommuni- 
cable woe, and the girl saw, with a thrill of fellow-feeling, that 
for the moment she was forgotten. 

“You are just as nice as ever,” she said softly, touching his 
arm with a sort of caress. “ But we must make haste ; tell me 
about yourself. ” 

He told her how matters stood with him briefly but fairlj^, to 
which she answered wdth breathless eagerness • 

“But, if things are like this, it may end in your being com- 
pelled to serve in the shop !” 

“No, I shall never do that, for my father’s sake. I would 
rather run away and earn my living as a strolling flddler in 
some town of France or Italy. Not,” he added, brightening, 
“that I should do that very long — some maestro would hear me 
and take me by the hand. Ah, Margery, I have improved since 
you heard me last — even without practice, studying only the 
score ; I feel the power growing. ” 

She clasped her hands in hearty camaraderie. 

“Oh, we must manage it!” she cried. “We will be fellow- 
conspirators 1 Even my father owned you had a divine touch. 
You shall not run to waste in Coplestone — you I” 

She stopped short — for, indeed, the wind made talk a con- 
flict, and the snow was dashed against her lips. 

“I must go. How horrid of the weather, and it was so fine 
yesterday ! I must go, but — I shall not forget. ” She called her 
dogs and had started to run, but he caught her cloak and held 
her back. 

“You shall not go alone. I must walk with you and hold 
the umbrella.” 

“ No one could keep it up ; I will use it as a staff. ” 

“ I refuse to leave you till you are safe home. You are a good 
mile from The Chace. No matter who sees us !” 

“No matter to you, perhaps, but — to me ! Well, I won’t draw 


60 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


too much on your gratitude, only it is not a trifle I have risked 
to-day. Still, I would do the same again to tell an old friend 
I was glad to see him and felt his troubles as if they were my 
own. Not a step farther — if you love me. ” 

“ I shall do that, Margery, to the last beat of my heart. ” 

She laughed, nodded, and ran on, holding down her head be- 
fore the blast, with the dogs trotting at her heels. Then, moved 
by a girlish impulse, she stopped and looked back. He was 
still standing watching her. As her eyes met his he flew to 
her as steel to the magnet, seizing her hands and kissing them 
almost in the attitude of worship. 

“ Speak to me again — only another word ” 

The girl thrilled a little ; the upturned face, pleading with 
passionate eagerness, touched her to the quick. He was so 
lonely and forlorn, and — so at bottom was she. What could she 
say to comfort him? 

“Oh,” she cried impatiently, “we will always be friends — 
you and I — always, always ! I will not forget you. I liked you 
from the first, Bertie, and will like you to the end — will that 
do?’^ 

He was still bowed before her, holding her hands and looking 
into her face. 

“No one,” he said, very gravely, “has kissed me since my 
mother died. Kiss me, Margery, angel as you are !” 

It was an appeal from devotee to saint. Without a blush she 
leaned towards him and touched his forehead with her fresh 
young lips. Gilbert bowed lower as if to receive a benediction. 

“The good God bless you!” he said reverently, and went his 
way. 


CHAPTEE IX. 

AT THE BAR. 

The shades of night were drawn around the house before Gil- 
bert Yorke re-entered Elm Lodge, but the night fell early at 
Coplestone in the first month of the year. 

Tea was over, and Mr. Cartwright occupied his usual place by 
the cheerful fireside, thoughtfully watching the flames as they 
danced up the chimney and reflected their glare in every pol- 
ished surface within their influence. His wife sat opposite with 
her knitting in her fingers and a vertical line on her brow 
known to both husband and son as a sign of deep mental dis- 


AT THE BAR. 


61 


turbance, and John lounged at the table with an unread book 
before him. There was an air of mixed oppression and expec- 
tation in the aspect of each. 

The room was so quiet that the sudden swing of the garden 
gate, and the sound of Gilbert’s returning footsteps on the gravel, 
had almost a startling effect. When the door -bell rang John 
got up from his seat as if to go out and open to him. Mrs. 
Cartwright looked up sharply. 

“Go, if you will, and ask your cousin to come in and speak 
to us at once, ” she said. “ But do not say anything more. ” 

John went out and delivered his message. 

“Before I change my shoes?” asked Gilbert. “I am wet 
through. ” 

John bent his brows in silence, then suddenly grasped Gil- 
bert’s hand with a dumb fervour which was at once eloquent 
and painful ; at the same moment Mrs. Cartwright herself stepped 
out into the hall. 

Gilbert was standing in the full light of the gas-lamp, which 
showed him soaked with rain and splashed with the mud of the 
moors. His pale face made his eyes look unnaturally wide and 
bright, but his expression was neither downcast nor defiant ; 
indeed there was a sort of dignity in it which Mrs. Cartwright 
recognised. A boy with such a look as that had not been doing 
anything that he was ashamed of, only the infirmity of Gilbert 
Yorke’s conscience was to be taken into account. 

“ Go up to your room and change your wet clothes, ” she said 
quietly ; “ we cannot speak to you in that state. ” And then she 
added : “Have you had any dinner?” 

He shook his head. Reaction was setting in, bringing with 
it the sense of exhaustion and consequent reluctance to trust 
himself with words. His aunt continued to gaze at him aus- 
terely, but in fact, could he have known it, slie had a greater 
feeling of pity for him than he had ever aroused before. It 
was the pity which the just but stern judge feels for the crimi- 
nal, and this criminal was so young and yet already was reap- 
ing the harvest of his pernicious up-bringing. 

“Go upstairs,” she repeated, “and I will send you something 
to eat.” 

“ Send me a cup of coffee, ” he pleaded, and such was the wist- 
ful charm of his manner that she signified assent, aware of a 
sharp pang of complex sensation ; then putting her hand on her 
son’s shoulder they went back to the dining-room together. 


62 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


Very little was said during the interval which elapsed before 
Gilbert entered the room. When he came in John pulled out a 
chair near his own, which his cousin took with an encouraging 
smile ; one might have thought that it was he and not Gilbert 
that was on his trial. 

Martin Cartwright turned round on his seat and faced the 
boys. “Gilbert, lad,” he began, “we are in a bit of trouble 
about you, but no doubt you will be able to clear it up. It 
seems you were wandering from home the chief part of yester- 
day, but we let that pass, knowing you are given to whimsies. 
What story was it that you told your aunt — that you were wan- 
dering about all those hours alone, and took that fiddle with you ?” 

“ It is quite true, sir. I was alone, and I did take my fiddle ; 
it was foolish, for I dared not pull it out of the case because of 
the damp.” 

“And where have you been to-day? Do you expect us to be- 
lieve that you have been tramping the country in the rain and 
the snow ever since you parted from John this morning, with- 
out a compaoion and without an object — for the pleasure of the 
thing?” 

“It does seem unreasonable,” was Gilbert’s reply ; “but I am 
always able to think better walking along in the open air, and I 
had a great deal to think about. ” 

“This is evasion!” interposed Mrs. Cartwright angrily. “An- 
swer your uncle’s question. Where have you been and witJi 
whom since John left you this morning? Your only chance of 
forgiveness lies in speaking the truth.” 

“And what will the consequence be if I refuse to speak and 
am not forgiven?” 

He stood up as he spoke, with his hand resting on the table, 
and his eyes fixed steadily on his aunt. John touched his arm 
furtively with a gesture that was meant for a warning, but 
which did not escape his mother’s observation. 

“Martin,” she said, turning to her husband, “there is a secret 
between these boys. It is already as I feared — it is not Gilbert 
Yorke alone who is deceiving us. ” 

There was an infiection of anguish in her voice strange to 
her son, and which pierced his heart with compunction. It was 
quite true, innocent as he was, that he had something to con- 
ceal, and his eyes fell before his mother’s glance which was 
almost more beseeching than searching. His tongue was so 
effectually tied! 


AT THE BAR. 


63 


Gilbert looked down upon him and smiled; then said in his 
musical clear voice : 

“ To keep a secret to yourself that you have no right to tell is 
not deceit, and John is just doing that. It is such a little secret 
and such an innocent one that to make an affair of it is absurd. 
It is altogether mine, and it is a pity that John knows, but he 
could not help himself — it was thrust upon him. You would 
not wish him,” and he looked boldly at his aunt’s noble face, 
“you would not wish him to betray his friend?” 

“No,” she answered, warmly, “but I would wish him not to 
have such a friend.” 

“ Ah, that is another story ! But at least you must exonerate 
John ; he went out with me this morning and never spoke to 
any other human creature while we were together. What he 
did on his way home I cannot answer for, of course. ” 

The poor little jest was out of place and bore witness more 
to the tension of Gilbert’s feelings than to any lightness of heart ; 
but it irritated Mrs. Cartwright, w^hose own mind was over- 
strung. 

“ Let that pass, ” she said, sternly. “ I wdll deal with my son 
at my own discretion. This matter narrows itself to one point : 
you went out with an object in view, probably to meet some 
person you dare not ask leave to bring under this roof. We 
demand, as your guardians, to know who this person was and 
what was your business together. ” 

“Just so,” remarked Martin, approvingly ; “we are within our 
rights and you must answer.” 

Gilbert sighed, ruffled his hair with his hand, looked ear- 
nestly at his cousin, whose eyes were fixed on the ground, and 
then said : 

“ And that is just the one question that I will not answer. ” 

“Not if the consequence of your insubordination was to be 
dismissal from our home?” 

“ Not even then, ” replied Gilbert, firmly. “ Indeed, during the 
long hours I have been wandering about to-day — alone, if you 
will believe me — I had almost come to the conclusion to dis- 
miss myself. I have thought out a plan of life I should like to 
talk over with you — to-morrow. I — I am dead beat to-night.” 

He kept his eyes turned away from John, but in spite of this 
safeguard his agitation was such he could scarcely keep the 
tears out of them. 

“You will think me ungrateful,” he said, “and perhaps I am. 


64 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


One thing I may explain ; I should not have been out so late, 
but I lost my way on the moors and met no one who could di- 
rect me. ” 

The eyes with which Mrs. Cartwright regarded him looked in 
their fixed intensity as if they had the power of searching the 
heart, but Gilbert met them without flinching^ and her face 
softened. 

“I will not blame you,” she said. “You go as you have been 
taught, and it would be unjust to blame you. Go to bed, if 
you wish, and we will settle this business to-morrow. ” 

That night she and her husband sat late, discussing Gilbert 
Yorke’s future, and able to reach no conclusion. Just because 
to separate the cousins was the strongest desire of her mind, 
Mrs. Cartwright was strictly on guard against suffering her con- 
science to be hoodwinked by personal bias. To Martin’s aston- 
ishment she referred to the scheme of the Leipzig Conservatoire 
as one not to be regarded with utter reprobation ; but she owned 
that she stood in great need of information upon details, and 
the decision reached — ostensibly by both, though she was the 
moving force — was that the matter should be referred to the 
head-master of Wesley College, who was at once the most 
learned, pious, and enlightened person of their little world. 

But had their world been larger, or even of the largest, it 
would have been hard to find a man of choicer gifts or more 
sweet reasonableness than Dr. Fleming. 

The result of the conference was that he asked to be allowed 
to have the two lads, to spend the evening with him, and fur- 
ther requested that Gilbert Yorke should bring his violin. 

It was an occasion long remembered by both ; there are some 
amongst us — and their host was of the number — who hold a key 
for the unlocking of hearts, and not only did Gilbert Yorke 
open out his heart under the touch of his intimate and consid- 
erate sympathy, but John himself felt the ice of his reserve 
thawing into confidence and self -disclosure. 

The scholarly charm of the well-appointed library, where the 
softest of lamps shed its mild light around and a wood -fire 
crackled and roared on the open hearth, pleased the perceptions 
of both the lads ; nor was the elegant little supper that was 
served for them one of the least of their enjoyments, although 
it was on the grounds of aestheticism rather than of appetite. 

It was not uutil this had been leisurely discussed and they 
had returned to the library that Dr. Fleming suggested that Gil- 


AT THE BAR. 


65 


bert should now give them a taste of his skill, and at the same 
moment the door opened to admit another visitor — a short, stout 
man with a stoop in his shoulders and a pair of keen grey eyes 
lighting up a rather florid face. 

“A professional friend of mine,” said the doctor to the boys 
after shaking hands with his guest. “We will not mind him, 
Gilbert ; it grows late — begin !” 

The boy hesitated and flushed a little, then prepared to obey ; 
the stranger pulling a chair close to the fire and warming his 
hands at the cheerful blaze. Gilbert stood in the middle of the 
room, tlie soft illumination from above falling upon his erect 
figure and radiant face. The look of exultation was so fine that 
Nature would indeed have been a hard stepmother if she had 
denied the power where the aspiration was so strong. As he 
advanced his foot and bent his head to the fiddle already scru- 
pulously tuned, the stranger turned and fixed his brilliant eyes 
upon him ; a smile touched his lips. 

The first few strokes of the bow proved his possession of that 
mysterious rapport between musician and instrument without 
which executive precision may go for naught. 

He played first his favorite passage from the French sym- 
phony, then, having stopped and been bidden to go on, differ- 
ent fragments from memory — an air from Fidelio that sounded 
like the cry of a divine soul tortured by fiends, and a Miserere 
of Bach’s, learnt in the Florentine churches. When at length 
he put down his violin and ventured to look round, he saw first 
John’s dark face, pale and transfigured, and so lit by the beau- 
tiful eyes, that his own mother would have been startled to have 
seen him. 

Dr. Fleming was looking enquiringly at his elder guest, whose 
eyes were fixed on the ground as if in inward debate. 

“ What do you think of yourself, ” he asked, abruptly, turning 
to Gilbert ; “ that you play very well V” 

“ I ? oh, no ! but I think it is in me to play well. ” 

“But you are afraid of hard work? I can see it in your 
face. ” 

“ Then my face bears false witness ! No work would be too 
hard for me. ” 

“That is, if you could lighten it sometimes by performing in 
public as a youthful prodigy?” 

Gilbert smiled. “I am too ambitious for that role. I will 
wait till I am a man.” 

5 


66 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


The sti'anger smiled and nodded more amicably. 

•‘We shall see,” he said, sharply. “If you become a great 
man we are bound to hear of you,” and he went out of the 
room, followed by his host. “I have not another moment to 
spare,” he said, turning round to shake hands, “but the boy is 
promising. I shonld be disposed to call him a genius, but you 
know I don’t put my faith in genius — the staying power is so 
often wanting. If there are not funds forthcoming for Leipzig , 
send him to me.” And the great man, who at that time ruled 
the organ at Westminster, and set lessons as musical doctor both 
to the present and to the future, hurried away. 


CHAPTER X. 

MOTHER AND SON. 

Two days after this incident Gilbert was called to a private 
interview with his uncle, who informed him that, under the 
advice of Dr. Fleming, both he and his aunt had agreed to with- 
draw their opposition to his making a profession of music, 
though they still felt . a great reluctance and misgiving, and to 
send him to Leipzig under one condition. 

“And what is the condition?” asked Gilbert, suddenly pale 
with dire apprehension. 

“ There Is no need to take fright, but Dr. Fleming has sug- 
gested that before taking such a decisive step we should let 
your other relatives know how things stand. Your grandfather 
is alive, Gilbert. ” 

“ But you are the only relative that has justified his right to 
the name, ” cried the boy, in an agony. “ My mother sent me 
to you. You did not consult any one else when you took me 
to your home and promised to treat me as a son. ” 

“Aye, lad, and if you would have let things bide as I hoped 
and expected, I would have asked for no man’s interference. 
You refuse to be a son to us and a brother to poor Jack ; you 
are bent on your own way, and I, for one, don’t like it, and I 
won’t accept the responsibility of it alone. Maybe your grand- 
father, Sir Owen Yorke, won’t take kindly to the idea of his 
son’s son turning fiddler. At any rate, he shall be consulted.” 

Gilbert, who had been standing, sat down. He felt stunned 
and in despair ; the sudden downfall of a hope so near fruition 
made him sick and faint. At last he gasped out : “ My father 


MOTHER AND SON. 


67 


always forbade any appeal to him— he treated him with such 
wicked injustice — and I promised. Dear uncle !” He got up to 
lay an imploring hand upon Mr. Cartwright’s arm. 

“My lad, it’s of no use, our minds are quite made up. Your 
aunt has sent the letter already, and if your grandfather is at 
home we shall hear in a day or two. ” 

To Gilbert’s eager temper, “a day or two” seemed an age, but 
his sweetness of temper helped him to disguise what he suffered 
and he had John’s sympathy to fall back upon. “I am glad,” 
he said on one occasion, “that you won’t mind so much about 
my going away as I feared; but why should you? You have 
not known me long and you have got your father and mother ; 
it would make me miserable if I thought you missed me — 
much. ” 

John was silent, if not sullen. “You see, 1 don’t want to 
make you miserable, ” was his slow answer. “ I suppose if you 
get amongst these music-people there is not much chance of 
your missing me?” 

“Not while the work is going on, but every minute between 
whiles — oh ! Jack, how I shall long for you ! I never knew a 
fellow like you ; from the first you were so good to me. ” 

John looked at him with his steadfast gaze. Gilbert’s face 
was alight with his readily kindled fervour, and the beauty of 
it, added to the charm of his caressing manner, appealed both to 
his senses and his heart with a force that startled himself. 

“I shall always like you,” he said, quietly, “and be ‘good’ to 
you, as you call it, if I have the chance. ” 

The next day brought a letter from Sir Owen Yorke in reply 
to Mrs. Cartwright’s. It was dated from the Steyne Hotel, 
Brighton, and ran thus : 

“ Sir Owen Yorke begs to thank Mrs. Cartwright for the great 
consideration of her letter. He was not aware of the death of 
his son’s widow, and under this change of conditions is willing 
to recognise the claims of his grandson, who is requested to join 
him at the address given below. A cheque is enclosed to meet 
current expenses. ” 

It happened that John entered the room while his mother 
held this letter in her hand. He was struck by the expression 
of her face, at once softened and exalted as by a profound sense 
of adoring gratitude as towards a God she had distrusted, but 
who yet had given her the desire of her heart. Yet the effect 


68 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


on his mind was almost that of recoil. .He stood with the 
handle of the door in his hand without advancing. Mrs. Cart- 
wright roused and, seeing him, motioned him to come nearer. 

“My son,” she said, in a voice that shook with the strength of 
her feeling, “rejoice with your mother! The calamity I dreaded 
and rebelled under is past away. We shall be as we once were 
— left to teacn other.” 

She had put her hand on his shoulder and leaned towards him 
as he stood before her, her mother’s heart quickened by the 
flame of her thanksgiving, and John felt her unaccustomed kiss 
on his forehead 

An overwhelming indignation smote him ; he drew back 
sharply, the fire leaping into his eyes as he met hers. 

“ Why are you so glad?” he demanded. “Is it because Gil- 
bert is going away? Does that letter settle it?” 

She had never seen such an outburst of natural feeling before, 
or conceived of the possibility of his defying her thus. More, it 
was seldom that she allowed any outlet to the passionate love 
that consumed her, and having done so, it had been met not 
only with indifference, but repulse. The complex pain and 
shame appealed to all the worst as well as to the best feelings 
of her nature, and for the moment the former triumphed. 

“Yes,” washer answer, “ Gilbert Yorke is going away — not, as 
we had arranged, to Leipzig, when this house would still have 
been his home, but to his grandfather. Sir Owen Yorke, who 
proposes to undertake the entire charge of him. But he will 
not go before his example has wrought the mischief that I 
feared.” 

She saw tliat he shrank under her voice and that his face 
grew white even to the lips, but he seemed to push her words 
aside in his anxiety to reach the vital issue. 

“Does that letter say so? May I read it?” he asked, breath- 
lessly. 

She put it into his hand ; he glanced through it, dropped it 
on tlie table near which he was standing, and turned to go out 
of the room ; but, stoic as the boy was, his distress mastered 
him. Suddenly sinking into a chair he leaned forward with 
his elbows on his knees and hid his face with his hands. 

“Oh!” he cried, in a sharp, cutting voice, “why are things so 
dreadfully hard? I feel as if I could not bear it. This one 
thing — just what I wanted — I thanked God for it every day and 
now — it is taken from me!” 


MOTHER AND SON. 


69 


The passion revealed shook her as with a sudden revelation. 
She was cut to the quick, but lovejand pity conquered every 
other feeling. She knelt down beside him and put her hand 
very tenderly on his shoulder. 

“My son,” she whispered, “you break my heart. I will com- 
fort you if I can. ” 

He shook his head without answering or looking up. Then 
she spoke again, not very wisely. 

“Is this frivolous boy, whom you di4 not know three months 
ago, more to you than I?” 

He was still silent and unresponsive, and her anger began to 
burn. She stood up. “Answer me!” she commanded. “Do 
you wish me to understand that if your Cousin Gilbert goes 
away there will be nothing left to comfort you? That God, and 
duty, and your parents’ love are of no account? That this short 
spell of influence is able to wash out all the record of the past?” 

Then John lifted his face, hagg*ard with misery. 

“Mother,” he said, “don’t press me so hard! I cannot an- 
swer these questions, only — God know^s I do not mean to be un- 
grateful or undutiful. ” 

“And yet you are, to an extent you cannot understand, because 
your love is not strong enough. John, you have never loved 
me. I used to think it a fault of nature and excuse you to my- 
self until — until this Addling chatterer came and opened my 
eyes !” She stopped to control the sob that rose in her throat, 
then went on : “ What is to be said of him who keeps back the 
payment of the debt he owes under the most sacred of all obli- 
gations, to bestow it where it is not even due?” 

“Oh!” he answered, “love is not like that! We don’t need 
to take from the one to give to the other. I have always loved 
you, mother, as much as I dared, and I have loved you better 

since I knew Gilbert. If I thought I had hurt you ” He 

looked shyly up, but the woman had frozen again ; she could 
not stoop to be a suppliant for her son’s love. 

“You reverse the parable, John, and the son gives a stone to 
the mother when she asks for bread. But such discussions as 
these are unnatural and humiliating. If I rejoice that your 
cousin is going away it is for your sake — for your own good. 
Your feeling for him is extravagant, almost sinful. It is a sort 
of idolatry, and, like all idolatry, it degrades the worshipper. I 
will still hope and pray for clearer views and a better mind. ” 

She turned and left him, but not without having paused for 


70 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


some moments to see if any answer were forthcoming — any plea 
or disclaimer that would have healed the aching soreness of her 
heart. But John hart neither stirred nor spoken, and his face 
was again hidden by his hands. 


CHAPTER XI. 

SIR OWEN YORKE MAKES HIS BOW TO HIS GRANDSON. 

It was a soft morning in the beginning of February when 
Martin Cartwright and his nephew set foot in Brighton and 
drove to the Old Steyne Hotel. 

There was not a cloud in the sky which overhung the broad 
bosom of the sea, swelling at the top of its flood. A narrow, 
sinuous line of creamy foam just marked the contact of the 
waves’ verge with the shingly beach, and made the faintest 
whisper. The promenade between the sea and the long line of 
stately buildings which faced it was gay wdth fashionable 
pedestrians idling in the pleasant sunshine, while the crowd 
of carriages and saddle-horses recalled the brilliancy and bustle 
of a June morning in Rotten Row. 

Gilbert, who had been deeply depressed during his journey, 
began to revive and to look about him. Such a draught of pure 
air had not reached his lungs since the day he had stepped on 
English ground, and his spirits rose at once to meet the anima- 
tion of the scene. Squalor and misery were out of sight, the 
well-bred accents and low musical laughter that reached his 
ears from all sides seemed to wdtness that the blessed spirit of 
enjoyment of life, which had seemed extinct at Copplestone, 
was still alive and regnant in the world. 

By the time they had reached their hotel his eyes w^ere bright 
and his figure erect. Martin Cartwright went with him to the 
door and they entered the hall together, but here he had decided 
to take leave of his nephew. His object, he said, was to see his 
sister’s son safely handed over to the care of his grandfather, 
and this w^as now accomplished. Gilbert’s luggage lay at their 
feet, and a tall, spare man-servant, with a staid and confiden- 
tial air, had answered their inquiries after Sir Owen Yorke by 
the information that his master was at home and ready to re- 
ceive the travellers. 

“But you will surely go up-stairs and speak to my grand- 


SIR OWEN AND HIS GRANDSON. 


71 


father,” urged Gilbert, “and let him thank you for all your 
goodness to me? Besides, I am horribly afraid of him !” 

“I will not go up and see the man who helped to break my 
poor sister’s heart, ” was the answer. “As for you — you must 
‘dree your w^eird, ’ lad, and I don’t think it’s going to be a very 
hard one. It’s like to suit you better than High Street or Elm 
Lodge either. What word am I to take back to John?” 

“That I love him better than ever. I shall write so often he 
will begrudge the time he spends over my letters, and my first 
holiday will be to come and see you. ” 

“ That depends, ” said Mr. Cartwright, significantly. “ No mes- 
sage to your aunt, Gilbert?” 

“Only one that you will not deliver. Beg her not to be hard 
on dear old Jack if he frets after me a little. He wouldn’t have 
cared for me so much — for I am a poor thing, after all — if she 
had let him know how much she cared for him. ” 

Mr. Cartwright frowned, for a rebuke to his wife from the 
light-hearted boy before him seemed presumptuous, but the 
frown was followed by a sigh of secret acceptance. 

“Well, well,” he answered, “youngsters have no right to 
judge their elders, and your aunt is a good woman, Gilbert. 
But I must be off, your grandfather won’t like to be kept wait- 
ing. Good-bye, my dear, dear lad !” 

He held out his hand, for so for the most part the English- 
man dismisses his kinsman, however near or dear to him, but 
such a farewell did not suit Gilbert’s temper or training. With- 
out regard to onlookers he threw his arm round his uncle’s 
neck and kissed him warmly, first on one cheek and then on 
the other, before the good man, at once touched and embar- 
rassed, could extricate himself from his embrace. 

“ And if Sir Owen Yorke makes my life a burden, ” he asked, 
hanging on his uncle’s arm as he walked back with him to the 
waiting cab. “I have permission to run away to you?” 

“No, lad, no; you must make up your mind to the duties of 
life ; it’s only the coward who runs away.” 

“But that is precisely what I am,” said Gilbert, his face 
alight with fun as he opened the door of the cab and gav'C a 
parting squeeze to his uncle’s hand. 

Five minutes later he was ushered into his grandfather’s 
presence. 

The sudden encounter of two human beings, strangers and 
yet bound by the closest ties of kindred, encloses a moment of 


72 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


acute anxiety, especially when the relative position is such that 
the unknown action of the one is of necessity influential over 
the fate of the other. 

Sir Owen Yorke was standing in the large bay-window facing- 
road and sea, with a field-glass in his hand, as Gilbert entered 
the room, but at the sound of the opening door he turned sharply 
and faced his grandson. 

He was a man close upon seventy years old and below the 
middle height, but there was little sign of weakness or decay 
to be detected in his aspect. His figure was still well knit and 
muscular, and was held aggressively erect so as not to lose the 
advantage of an inch of stature. Thick iron-gray hair sat close 
tc) the bullet-shaped head, and a moustache of the same colour 
obscured the thin lips ; the eyes beneath the overhanging brows 
were blue with the hard brightness of steel, and the smooth 
chin was firm and square. It might, however, be doubted 
whether the singular preservation of his physical vigbur (even 
to the fine teeth of which he was inordinately vain) was not 
dearly purchased by the total absence of all the venerable and 
attractive characteristics of old age. 

We have been minute in description because it was thus that 
the keen perceptive glance of his grandson marked the details 
of his personality, while fully aware that his own was being 
subjected to an equal scrutiny. 

As soon as the servant had closed the door, Sir Owen advanced 
a few steps and held out his hand with a ceremonious bow. 

“I have the honour to make the acquaintance of the son of 
the late Colonel Yorke?” he said, with a mixture of mockery 
and amusement more discomforting than perhaps any other be- 
haviour could have been. 

Gilbert, though hurt and perplexed, obeyed the impulse of his 
natural courtesy ; he took the hand of his grandfather and, bow- 
ing the head that overtopped him, put it to his lips. 

“I am my father’s son,” he replied, standing upright, “as also 
the son of my mother — his dear wife.” 

For a moment they exchanged glances, .then the elder man 
shrugged his shoulders and smiled. 

“ The spurt of a game-cock, ” he said. “ I have no objection. 
Had not Christina Cartwright been my son’s wife, whether 
dear or otherwise, you and I would never have met. But she 
is dead, I am given to believe, and she had no child but you?” 

Gilbert made a sign of assent. 


SIR OWEN AND HIS GRANDSON. 


73 


j “Do you know why I have seen for you? You have been 
told, I presume, of your uncle’s death? I allude, not to the Cop- 
plestone draper, but to your father’s brother. It occurred prob- 
' ably before you were born ; I have not the advantage of know- 
ing your age precisely. So long as you had closer ties existing, 

I this circumstance would' have made no difference in your for- 
! tunes ; but now I am willing, under certain conditions, to take 
you by the hand and to prepare you, if not too late, for the 
I place you are likely to fill. Only the life of a sickly imbecile 
stands between you and — and the position that I hold.” 

, Gilbert drew a deep breath. Sir Owen, who was watching 
' him intently, saw a sudden fire in the soft brown eyes and a 
smile on the lips that had a touch of rapture in it. A thought 
i of Margery Denison had set his soul on flame. 

“I did not understand this before,” he said, simply, “and I 
don’t know how to realize it.” 

Sir Owfen smiled cynically. “You like the idea? No diffi- 
culty in accepting it, eh?” 

“At the first moment it seemed splendid, but — may I ask 
a ” 

“As many as you like after luncheon. I presume you have 
brought your luggage with you. I will ring for Baxter to show 
you to your room.” 

Thus dismissed Gilbert had the opportunity of arranging his 
thoughts while putting a few finishing touches to his toilette, 
the necessity of which seemed to have been implied. During 
the meal the presence of a servant restrained conversation, and 
when his grandfather addressed him at all, which was not often, 
it was with the formal civilities of host to guest. Gilbert was 
also aware that a vigilant observation was kept on all his move- 
ments as if to detect any br aches of good-breeding. 

After lunch was over they went back to the pleasant sitting- 
room facing the sea where they had first met, and Sir Owen 
establishing himself in a comfortable easy-chair which com- 
manded a view of the outer world without being too far from 
the fire, lighted a cigar, and motioned to Gilbert to take a seat 
opposite. 

“ Perhaps, ” he began, “ it may save friction if instead of asking 
me questions, as you obligingly proposed just now, I provide 
you with the facts you ought to know. On your Cousin Ed- 
ward’s demise, which can scarcely be delayed many mohths 
longer, you are heir-at-law to the title which I now hold and of 


74 


PASSING THE LOVE OP WOMEN. 


which it would be in no man’s power to deprive you. But al- 
though from the times of the Tudors the lands and emoluments 
thereto belonging have descended from father to son without 
any break of continuity, not a single acre, nor equally a single 
shilling, is entailed upon the said heir-at-law. Each successive 
baronet can bequeath what he holds at his own discretion. I 
wish you to think very seriously of this. ” 

“ I knew it before, ” said Gilbert, quietly, “ my mother had told 
me. ” 

Sir Owen winced as if a gnat had stung him ; then, ignoring 
the remark, went on : 

“ Your father was my younger and favorite son, but, as you 
know, he married beneath him and I cut him thenceforth out 
of my heart and should have cut him out of my will without 
the proverbial shilling, had he been happy enough to survive 
me. In the same way I shall treat his son if he should prove 
refractory. My desire is that he should not prove refractory — 
but I am wasting my breath. There is a look about you of in- 
subordination ready-made. ” 

“ I do not know, ” said Gilbert, “ whether it is that, but I feel 
that no one ought to speak to a son of his father as you have 
done. I am ashamed to defend him.” 

Sir Owen puffed lightly at his cigar for a moment or two 
with his eyes on the speaker, then withdrawing it said in a 
cool, level tone : “ Defend him, if you like , I am not unwilling 
to hear how he lived after the break with his family.” 

“ But I cannot do him justice — I knew him so little. I was 
only six years old when he died, so that my knowledge is from 
my mother, though I often fancy it is my own. You know 
what he looked like — a king among men, as if no mean thought 
had ever come near him. After the first three years of his mar- 
riage my father sold out of the army, as I suppose you know. ” 

“ I know nothing. Tell your story your own way. ” 

“ He was tempted by a traitor to invest everything in some 
speculation which failed miserably and left* us penniless. From 
that time to his death his life was so hard and bitter that I can- 
not bear to think about it. He tried first one thing and then 
another, but nothing prospered, and I have heard my mother 
say that in some of their extremities he stooped to tasks, in 
order to earn money, that none but a saint and a soldier as he 
was would have consented to, though he tried hard to keep the 
knowledge from her.” 


SIR OAVEN AND HIS GRANDSON. 


75 


“ Excuse me ! Did you say a saint? I can scarcely believe 
that my son Gilbert ever developed in that direction. ” 

“Oh! I don’t use the word in its vulgar meaning! I mean 
such saints as St. George and St. Martin, who were heroes as 
well. ” 

He stopped short, his face burning with righteous anger as 
he met the half-sneer on the old man’s face ; then he -said, with 
a sort of deliberate boldness : “ Had you forgiven him, my father 
might have been alive now. ” 

“ Possibly, but I am not of the sort that forgives — as it will be 
well for you to- remember. Have you anything more to tell 
me?” Gilbert shook his head. Sir Owen continued for some 
time to smoke in silence with his deliberate gaze on his grand- 
son. At length he said : “ I propose to give you the training 
and education of a gentleman ; are you a dunce or a scholar ?” 

“A dunce, without question.” 

“Then it will take some heavy coaching to fit you for Oxford?” 

Gilbert laughed. “ No coaching would have weight enough 
to propel me ! May I tell you now what you ought to know be- 
fore you make any plans for me? I am so anxious about it ! I 
should like to please you if I could, but there are some things 
that” — he stopped — “forgive me if I say that there are some 
things that must and others that cannot be. ” 

Sir Owqn raised his eyebrows. “What things?” 

Gilbert sent up an instinctive prayer to the Powers above for 
grace to speak wisely and with acceptance. “When my aunt, 
Mrs. Cartwright, wrote you, ” he said, “ it was to ask your con- 
sent to my education as a musician. They had given theirs ; 
everything was arranged. I was to go to Leipzig. I had con- 
viinced them — others had convinced them — that it was the best 
thing that could be done with me. Indeed, it is the only thing 
that I am fit for — the only thing I care for. ” 

He had begun quietly, but he was breathless by this time. 

“ What do you mean ? That you w^ant to take the old family 
title on the stage and let yourself out for hire? 

“My ambition is — and I can think of none higher — to be one 
of the first violinists in Europe, and what would be the good of 
that without an audience? If I attained to it would you put 
such a light as that under a bushel? As for hire — well, I should 
fiddle none the worse if I did it for the pure love of it, or, as 
that would be unfair to my brothers, I could found a scholar- 
ship or a pension-fund with my earnings.” 


76 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


Sir Owen put down his cigar the better to mutter an oath be- 
tween his lips. 

‘‘The strongest desire of my mind just now is to horsewhip 
you f6r a fool ! It seems I am once more to be the sport of my 
kindred. Your father threw his filial duty overboard, and his 
brother died in his prime leaving two miserable children to 
divide the' family honours. And now, when I am disposed to 
turn to you as a forlorn hope, I find you — though not otherwise 
impossible — as besotted and impracticable as the rest! Haven’t 
you brains enough to see that for an English baronet to con- 
template the career of a public fiddler is pure lunacy? Admit 
you have never probably associated the ideas — now you will 
have to drop one of them.” 

“Then let us hope my poor cousin will live,” cried Gilbert, 
“and that I shall never be a baronet at all. Perhaps he is not 
more of a lunatic than I.” 

Sir Owen frowned, then, on second thoughts, condescended to 
smile. There was something not altogether displeasing to him 
in the independence and vivacity of his grandson ; besides, as 
the case stood, he was not able to dispense with him, so that 
compromise became indispensable. 

“ That is an open question, ” was his answer. “ But if you are 
reasonable perhaps we may come to terms. Although an English 
baronet may not play the fiddle for hire, he may play it for 
pleasure, and if his bent is in that dircetion, he may even learn 
to play it well. How old are you?” 

“ I shall be eighteen on the first of June. ” 

“ Rather too young for Magdalen 1 You must go to Oxford 
ultimately or you will carry the taint of outlandishness to your 
grave ; you will never learn the shibboleths of the English gen- 
tleman unless. But you need not go at once. Suppose I agree 
to send you to Leipzig with a tutor who could cram you enough 
for bare matriculation in a year or so? You would be able to 
keep your terms at the university and get the benefit of the con- 
servatoire at the same time, on the understanding that only a cer- 
tain portion of your day was given to your hobby. You can think 
it over at your leisure ; I don’t want your ultimatum on the spot. ” 

Gilbert’s head was bent upon his hand and his eyes fixed on 
the fire. 

“It seems like betraying one’s faith,” he said, in a low voice; 
“ yet what can I do. I wish you had asked my obedience, Sir 
Owen, on any other point. ” 


THREE GENERATIONS. 


77 


“ There is another point on which I propose to ask it, ” re- 
turned the other, drily. “ As likely to become a member of my 
houseohld and to stand in the place of the sons I have lost, I 
desire that all intercourse should cease between you and your 
mother’s family. I do not ask much ; you have known them 
only a few months, and I gathered from the letter I received 
from Mrs. Cartwright, who seems to be a sensible woman, that 
they were anxious to get rid of you. It will save disagreeable 
complications in the future if we wash our hands of them 
henceforth. ” 

“If I did,” said Gilbert, hotly, “I think no amount of wash- 
ing would ever get my hands clean again ! I would not give 
up my cousin, John Cartwright, even if you were to bribe me 
with my heart’s desire ! Nor will I give up Uncle Martin. 
My aunt does not like me, I own, but even she is not unjust. 
It was she who first saw the wisdom of sending me to Leipzig. 
Let me go back to that plan and to them ; you have another 
grandson and you do not want me !” 

“I do not want you to fill a blank in my heart,” sneered Sir 
Owen, “or from any hope of gratitude, but as a matter of expe- 
diency I do want you. I am prepared to have some trouble 
with you, taking into account the influences of your life. But 
I am tired of being browbeaten by an ill-bred boy — we will 
leave these questions for the present. Get your hat and we will 
go and look at human nature out of doors and hear the band 
play in the Pavilion Gardens. You will be able to tell me if it 
merits my subscription.” 


CHAPTER XII. 

THREE GENERATIONS. 

' Sir Owen Yorke had gone through life under the two dubious 
privileges of perfect health and abundant means. The inheri- 
tance had fallen to him in his cradle, and during his long mi- 
nority a careful guardian had nursed the estates so successfully 
that not only were all outsanding mortgages paid off, but a fund 
accumulated that was in itself a handsome fortune. 

He married very early the girl of his choice — a pretty, frivo- 
lous creature, bred, like himself, in selfish indulgence and with 
no outlook beyond the extraction of pleasure out of life. Had 
she lived longer, each, no doubt, would have found the insuflEi- 


78 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


ciency of the other, but she died three years after marriage, 
leaving two sons behind her. 

The feeling of the father towards his children was rather one 
of embarrassment than of affection ; he was still so young that 
the relationship bored him considerabl}’, and he finally left their 
training to strangers and betook himself to an exhaustive analy- 
sis of the world, the flesh, and the devil. 

Both sons entered the army as they grew up, receiving from 
their father so meagre an allowance that they continually 
found themselves in debt and difficulty, the reluctant deliver- 
ance from which widened still further the unnatural breach 
between them. Sir Owen felt himself handicapped in the race 
of life by such expensive impediments, and the young men 
cherished a justifiable resentment at the heartless selfishness of 
his conduct. 

The younger son, Gilbert, married, as we know, the sister of 
Martin Cartwright, and it is quite certain that, in Sir Owen’s 
estimate, the vexation of the mesolliance was rather compen- 
sated by the opportunity it gave him of cutting the culprit 
adrift from all further benefactions. 

The elder son, after a youth of profligate splf- indulgence only 
less pronounced than his father’s from the want of equal means 
and a certain hard-headedness which preserved the elder man 
from going too far for personal well-being, also married. His 
choice was a prudential one ; he married a widow considerably 
older than himself wdio possessed a small estate in one of the 
home counties, his father agreeing to a suitable increase of his 
allowance on the understanding that he left off the sowing of 
wild oats and settled down into respectability. 

A year after Edward Yorke’s satisfactory settlement in life, 
he was killed on the railway through an act of bravado in 
crossing the line with an express train in view, and the shock 
of his death, or, at least, the shock caused by the sight of his 
mangled body, led to the premature birth of the heir which had 
been by both parents so anxiously awaited. But although the 
expected heir was born, he did not come alone. Mrs. Yorke 
gave birth to twins, a boy and a girl, to the huge disgust of 
her father-in-law, who looked upon the event as an infraction 
of all the laws of good-breeding. 

As the years went by this disgust deepened. Both children 
were puny and delicate, but the boy was weak in intellect as 
well ; the doctors from the time of his birth had decided that 


THREE GENERATIONS. 


79 


he would never have strength to reach manhood, but they had 
not taken into sufficient account the devotion of a mother. 

At the time that young Gilbert Yorke came to his grand- 
father, his cousin Edward was still alive, though nailed to his 
couch with spinal disease and with a slow but steady deteriora- 
tion of what brain-power was left to him. So certain was Sir 
Owen — the conviction being based on desire — that death was 
now- imminent, that he had graciously allowed Mrs. Yorke to try 
the effect of change of air, and had placed his Yorkshire house, 
Rookhurst, at her disposal. 

If the heir 'were about to die it would not be unfitting and 
might have its social advantages to permit him to die at the 
old family seat and be interred with his ancestors. It is true 
that having done the honours of reception he at once betook 
himself to town, and thence, as the season served, to Brighton. 

Mrs. Cartwright’s letter found him in the mood of expectation. 
An heir would soon be wanted ; possibly Gilbert’s boy might be 
made fit for society, and, such was the cruel stringency of fate, 
he could not live always. Now that the mother was dead the 
obstacle was removed, and he was not unwilling to find a new 
interest in life, seeingthat advancing age had dulled the old ones. 

Nor are the worst amongst us so bad as to be utterly destitute 
of that spark of divinity which saves from utter corruption, 
though in this old man the glow was of the feeblest. Soiled 
with all the vices which the world encourages and condones so 
long as they are pursued with well-bred reticence, and steeped 
in a selfishness more demoralizing than even vice itself, there 
was Still some faculty of moral apprehensiveness left. The boy’s 
loyalty to his parents and friends and his absurd indifference to 
his personal interests, to say nothing of his grace of manner 
and person, produced in Sir Owen’s mind a sentiment of amused 
amenity, such as the exhausted drunkard might be supposed to 
feel for the simplicity of the child that rejoices in a cup of cold 
water. 

They were companions for the next few days , he introduced 
his grandson to his friends, took him up to town to show Lon- 
don for the first time to one who had never seen it, and who 
had every sense open to absorb new impressions ; even went 
with him to theatres and picture galleries and to a great con- 
cert at St. James’ Hall, and tasted in the delight and gratitude 
excited almost the first pure sensation of his life. 

More than this, he checked in their intercourse together some 


80 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


of the worldlj^ cynical speeches that sprang to his lips as antidotes 
to Gilbert’s ignorance of life, and left unspoken the cutting gibe 
or base suggestion on social aspects that came under their notice, 
shamed into silence by the expression of ingenuous confidence in 
the eyes which looked to his for enlightenment. 

Why should not this pleasant lad think well of him? It 
would do no harm, and though the burlesque was obvious, it 
was not so to him who did not see the fun. 

So curious was the influence produced by the one over the 
other, that Sir Owen found himself answering Gilbert's enquir- 
ies about his Yorke cousins without mockery or bitterness ; in- 
deed, recognising for the first time, as the result of the other’s 
ungrudging sympathy, that there really was something piteous 
in the case. 

“ Let us go and see them, ” Gilbert asked, “ before I start for 
Germany ! I should dearly love to see my father’s old home 
and then ” he stopped short suddenly. 

He had been thinking of Margery Denison and wondering 
whether the recent shifting of the slides of fate would give him 
back the privilege of companionship, and then he suddenly re- 
membered she would not be at home. She was at school, he 
thought with a smile ; well, he was going to school too, and it 
behooved them both no doubt to fit themselves better for the con- 
duct of affairs before he could seriously approach her with the 
offer of his life’s devotion and of everything that might lie at 
his own disposal. 

It had been the secret purpose of his boyish passion to com- 
pass this in some way or another, but certainly the chances 
were more in his favour as the accepted heir of Sir Owen Yorke 
than under the contingency of his European fame as a violinist, 
however resonant that fame might be. At least, such were the 
prejudices of the world. 

But when he stopped and hesitated, it was because another 
idea had occurred to him almost as eager and engrossing as that 
of Margery herself : if he went to Rookhurst he would be within 
easy reach of his cousin, John Cartwright. 

Sir Owen sat, as usual when at ease, with a cigar between his 
lips, and amused himself by watching the lights and shades that 
passed over the boy’s face. 

“And then?” he questioned, repeating his last words, and Gil- 
bert, to whom it would have seemed sacrilege to breathe a word 
of the other hope, answered, boldly : 


GUESTS AT ROOKHURST. 


81 


** And then I shall be able to visit my Uncle Martin. ” 

Sir Owen shrugged his shoulders. 

“ If you once carry out your desire to defy my authority, ” he 
remarked, carelessly, “ I will engage that you do not repeat the 
offense. ” 

Gilbert did not protest, but determination was to be read in 
every line of his face. Sir Owen’s frown grew formidable ; he 
put down his cigar. 

•‘You hear me,” he resumed, in an altered voice, “and I assure 
you I am a man of my word.” 

“ And so am I !” was the answer, in the lowest of tones and 
without a touch of bravado. “Jack and I have promised to 
stick to each other through thick and thin and — we mean to 
stand to it.” 

Sir Owen muttered an oath between his lips, but, after all, 
his anger was rather simulated than real, for what was the use 
of fulminating threats against one who was prepared to accept 
the worst he could do with perfect indifference? The alternative 
of casting off his grandson was that his uncle, the draper, would 
resume the charge of him and strengthen the ties that family 
pride made odious, while he himself would be left in the cold. 

He could not eat his own words or withdraw his veto, but he 
was almost prepared to admit to himself that it would be expe- 
dient to wink at disobedience. 

“We will hope,” he said, rather feebly, “that reflection on the 
duty you owe me will bring you to a better mind, and that 
intercourse with your cousins and aunt Yorke will help to open 
your eyes. At all events, I am willing that you should make 
their acquaintance. I shall write to Rookhurst to-night and 
tell them that they may expect us. ” 

And as he spoke he smiled in his hard, cynical way as the 
thought occurred to him how very displeasing to the widow 
would be the intelligence that he proposed to give her. 


CHAPTER XHI. 

GUESTS AT ROOKHURST. 

Rookhurst was by no means one of the palatial country- 
seats of old England, but it was none the less one of the most 
charming. An in*egular pile of gray stone with fantastic 
chimneys curiously massed, it offered its long level fagade to the 
6 


82 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


south-east, covered by such a growth of ivy as could only be 
matched in one or two other places in the kingdom. 

The trunks and branches of the parent tree had attained in the 
course of ages a marvellous girth and development, so massive 
and contorted as to suggest nothing so much as the involutions 
of some gigantic serpent. 

The low square tower which was planted above the central 
gateway, as well as the highest chimnevs of the group, were 
equally covered with the growth, not flaunting in wildling 
streamers or maintaining its right of straying tendril or sturdy 
shoot, but clipped and pruned to the highest point of trimness 
to be attained by gardener’s shears. 

The house was set dowm upon a broad stone platform, from 
which two or three shallow steps descended to a charming garden 
enclosed by a low wall and kept in admirable order. 

The^lawns were fine and mossy, with the mellowing influence 
of centuries of scythes, and even at this early season of the 
year the flower-beds were full of delicate spring blossoms, the 
colours grouped with that elaborate precision which takes from 
the grace of nature all that it gives to art. 

An antique fountain, which rose from the centre of a black 
marble basin, leaped high into the pure cool sunshine, making 
a constant flash and tinkle pleasant or irritating according to the 
ear of the listener. 

The park stretched on three sides, following the natural swells 
and hollows of the ground, and bearing some glorious specimens 
of that impressive tree known as the cedar of Lebanon, their 
superb level branches amongst the general nakedness casting 
heavy shadows upon the ground ; the rest of the carefully - 
pruned timber showing every curve and reticulation of ponder- 
ous limb or slender twig in sharp outline against the pale 
blue sky. 

Behind the mansion and outbuildings lay an old-world vil- 
lage, quiet and somnolent, though the huge factories of Cople- 
stone hammered and throbbed less than thirty miles away, and 
in the distance, tingeing the valley in which the Rookhurst estate 
lay, rose the wooded hills of Derbyshire. 

On the morning of the day on which Sir Owen’s letter to his 
daughter-in-law formed the most important part of the contents 
of the post-bag, Mrs. Yorke had been the first to enter the break- 
fast-room, and she was still busy with its contents when her 
daughter, Philipa, entered the room. 


GUESTS AT ROOKHURST. 


83 


Between mother and child there was a curious unlikeness, the 
one being a tall, finely -proportioned woman with the traces of 
that type of blond beauty which best withstands the ravages of 
time ; the other was diminutive in figure and dark in com- 
plexion, with a small, sharp-featured face, on which the mother’s 
eyes never rested without a pang of disappointment. 

Time seemed to have no power to soften the anguish of her 
regret that her girl should inherit neither her figure nor her 
face ; she scarcely ever looked in the glass without drawing a 
mental comparison between them, and would willingly have 
robbed herself of her own personal endowments if, by doing so, 
she could have transferred them to Philipa. She loved her, it 
is true ; but it was with the half -contemptuous pity which so ill 
fits a mother’s pride and joy. The daughter, on her side, 
adored her mother, and so keen was her appreciation of the 
pitiful shortcomings of her brother and herself, that she re- 
garded her almost in the light of a martyr, bearing patiently the 
pross of their existence. 

She entered the room almost as quietly as a shadow, and, steal- 
ing like one to Mrs. Yorke’s side, kissed her cheek. 

“You have bad news?” she asked anxiously, quick to interpret 
the expression of the lifted face. 

“ Yes, but w^e will have^breakfast. Ring, Phil ; I have been 
up a long time and am tired of waiting. Why, child, what ails 
you? You look like a ghost this morning.” 

Philipa blushed and dropped her eyes under the look of 
irritated concern. “I have been up with Ted part of the night. 
I could not help it — he sent for me — he could not sleep. ” 

Mrs. Yorke sighed impatiently. “Was any woman so unfort- 
unate as I?” was her exclamation, though it might have been 
supposed that her children were more to be pitied than herself ; 
but some of us regard all the conditions of life only as they 
impinge on our personal consciousness. Philipa, however, fully 
justified her mother. 

“I think no woman ever was,” she answered with a little 
smile. “ But you must not mind me. I shall be better when 
I have eaten something and had a walk. Oh, what a delicious 
morning !” 

Her eyes brightened as they looked out from the windows of 
the delightfuly comfortable breakfast -room to the scene beyond. 
Mrs. Yorke’s eyes followed her’s, and she sighed again more 
impatiently than before. 


84 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


The luxury and beauty of their surroundings were undeniable, 
and, under existing circumstances, were so many aggravations of 
her lot. Even the amenities of breakfast had their reverse side 
as suggesting amenities of uncertain tenure, although with the 
trained perceptions of a woman of society she could not resist 
the mollifying influence of coffee which brought with it the 
airs of Araby the Blest, or of the cdtelettes a Maintenon. which 
Sir Owen’s chef had condescended to send up that morning. 

When she resumed the conversation it was in a milder tone. 

“It will be necessary for me to see the housekeeper directly 
after breakfast. I have got a letter from your grandfather this 
morning. You had better read it — it will save trouble. ” 

Phil did so, her mother watching her face meanwhile, which, 
whatever its shortcomings, did not fail in expressiveness, and 
she was annoyed to see that it flushed and brightened with a 
look of pleasure. 

“ O, mamma, but this is delightful ! Does he mean they are 
coming to-day?” 

“ That appears the natural interpretation of the words, but it 
strikes me as an extraordinary thing that you should think that 
delightful which means probably the downfall of our hopes, or, 
I ought to say, of our rights! Don’t you see that this new 
caprice of Sir Owen’s means the risk of your brother losing the 
succession ?” 

“No, I never thought of that.” Philipa blushed penitently. 
Her innocent thought had been that the coming of this unknown 
cousin, about whom she had speculated sometimes, might bring 
a gleam of sunshine across her shaded life, but she was prompt to 
accept her mother’s implied reproach and to condemn herself as 
selfish. She added timidly: “Sir Owen” (the sensitive baronet 
had never allowed himself to be called grandfather by his son’s 
children) “does not imply anything of the kind. I thought he 
wrote rather more kindly of us than usual. ” 

“ A bad omen, child ! He has never done more than tolerate 
either of you.” She smiled a little bitterly, feeling that she 
had hardly a right to complain, fate had been so cruel to her 
as a mother. “ He has the bad taste and bad feeling to speak 
of this upstart boy — sprung upon us in this indecent fashion — as 
'a lad to be proud of !’ He tells me to give him one of the best 
bedrooms !” 

“But is it in Sir Owen’s power to take away poor Ted’s birth- 
right? How could our cousin take his place?” 


GUESTS AT ROOKHURST. 


85 


“ ‘ Our cousin ! ’ ” repeated her mother contemptuously. “ Really, 
Phil, your eagerness to accept this new relationship tries my 
temper ! I could wish you had a little more spirit and loyalty. 
Your grandfather cannot rob the heir of his rank, but I imagine 
you understood he has a right to dispose of the property as he 
thinks fit. It is a monstrous privilege for any man to be 
allowed, though, I believe, the land has never yet been alienated 
from the title; but then, who could trust Sir Owen Yorke?” 

She got up and left the room, patting her daughter’s shoulder as 
she passed her, for the look in the girl’s eyes touched her heart. 

Philipa seized the gracious hand and kissed it passionately. 

After her mother was gone she still kept her seat at the table, 
looking out with tired eyes upon the scene beyond the windows. 
The phrase in her grandfather’s letter haunted her — ‘'a lad to 
be proud of” — and the feeling that weighed like lead upon her 
soul was how different would life have been to her had a kind 
Providence made her “ a girl *to be proud of. ” The passionate 
yearning for acceptance was more for others’ sakes than her 
own — that she might have been less of a disappointment and a 
burden to her mother and friends. 

Alas ! how many such prayers and lamentations seem to fall 
back powerless upon the heart that offers them. 

Meanwhile, Mrs. Yorke having given the necessary orders for 
the expected arrival of the master of the house and the guest he 
was to bring with him, whose name, from a singular feeling of 
reluctance, she did not mention to the venerable housekeeper, 
took her way to her son’s room, where she knew he would be 
by this time established. 

It would be necessary to prepare him to receive the coming 
guests. Edward Yorke was at this time about sixteen years of 
age, and bore, as was to be expected, a close resemblance to his 
twin sister. In his case, however, the meagi*eness of the dimin- 
utive figure was accentuated by a measure of deformity — the legs 
being bowed and powerless, the shoulders high, and the head, 
sunk upon the chest, seemed buried between them. 

The small, sharp -featured face, unless quickened into alert- 
ness by the stimulus of pain or of ill-temper, had a pervading 
dulness of aspect which might well be excused in one whose 
heritage of life had been granted on such hard lines of suffering 
and deprivation. 

2 He was not imbecile as his grandfather insisted upon consid- 
ering him, but his average intelligence had become weakened 


86 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


by the pressure of disease and his own unnecessary chafing 
under the yoke. All the resources of medical science had been 
called into service on his behalf with such success that life had 
been cherished and retained in the puny frame, but no conquest 
had been gained over the obscure spinal disease which made at 
times a torture of his daily life. Nothing was spared in the 
effort to alleviate the hardship of his lot in the way of 
physical indulgence. His appetite had been pampered from a 
child, and his solicitude about his meals was the liveliest inter- 
est of his life. He had too a curious personal vanity, and was 
precise and exacting about his dress. His valet, who was also 
his nurse, was a man absolutely essential to the youth’s exist- 
ence, and was the highest-paid and most important servant in 
the widow’s household. It was considered impossible to allow 
Philipa a waiting- maid or many other reasonable indulgences 
on the ground of her brother’s requirements, and the idea of 
questioning the justice of these conditions never glanced across 
the girl’s generous mind. 

When Mrs. York entered her son’s room she saw from the 
expression of his face that it was one of what were known in 
the family as his “ bad days. ” His brows were contracted and 
his lips sullen. The process of his toilet was always a pain- 
ful one, and he had only just been assisted to his couch. One 
of the most delightful rooms in the house had been appropriated 
for his use, and at this moment a glorious fire of pine logs 
blazed on the hearth before him, Avhile the tender sunshine 
streamed through the high-mullioned windows and threw the 
colors of the heraldic blazon across the floor. 

Perhaps the mother had never felt more acutely the incon- 
gruity betwen these ancestral associations and the heir to them. 
The spiteful phrase in Sir Owen’s letter haunted her memory as 
it had done that of Philipa, and provoked a feeling of irritated 
bitterness. 

Very sullen replies were given to her anxious enquiries 
about his health, and the vexation his manner caused her — for 
she was not a long-suffering woman — enabled her to make the 
disagreeable announcement of his grandfather’s visit with less 
reluctance than she would otherwise have done. 

It took more effect than she had feared. Edward shrank and 
shivered. 

“I won’t see him!” he cried harshly. “I hate the old man. 
Understand, don’t bring him in here!” 


COUSINS. 


87 


Mrs. Yorke tried to soothe him. The contemptuous indiffer- 
ence with which Sir Owen had always regarded his grandson 
was resented by her as the most cruel of injuries, and the ner- 
vous dread and aversion it had excited as one of the most 
piteous forms of her son’s weakness. 

“ Trust me, dear, he shall not, ” she said tenderly. “ He shall 
not, nor your new cousin either.” 

Edward looked up with unusual alertness. 

“My new cousin !” he repeated sharply, “who is that?” 

His mother explained, aware that he followed her with alert 
attention ; then he fell back on his pillows, for he had risen with 
raised head. “Ah!” he said in his high, shrill voice, “I see! 
They think I shall die and make room for the son of the draper’s 
shop-girl ; but I shall not ! I shall hold on, mother — I shall 
hold on and spite ’em all ! You will help me?” 

“To the best of my power, dear,” she answered with a rather 
dreary smile and an involuntary shrinking from the expression 
of his face; “but there is no reason why you should not be 
friends with your cousin ; it is not good form to be on bad 
terms with your relations. ” 

“I object to all parvenus — and their offspring !” was the boy’s 
answer, with a sneer that his own infirmities rendered 
detestable. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

COUSINS. 

The travellers did not reach Rookhurst till late in the even- 
ing long after the hour when Edward Yorke was accustomed to 
go to bed ; but he had announced his resolution of sitting up in 
order to see his cousin, “ even if he had to wait up all night 
for it ” — his pertinacity causing his mother some anxiety. 

Sir Owen had arrived apparently in the best of spirits and of 
tempers, and had sat long over the exquisite little repast which 
his chef had solicitously prepared. He complimented his 
daughter-in-law in terms of such flagrant flattery that she 
colored with indignation and blushed deeper still when she saw 
that Gilbert blushed too. 

Never indeed had Gilbert felt so uncomfortable. He had been 
introduced to his aunt with so much ceremony and importance 
that he felt it could only appear to her like provocation and 


88 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


insult, and he had hardly been permitted to speak to his cousin 
Philipa. 

Sir Owen had greeted her with that sort of exaggerated 
deference with which he was apt to point his real contempt, and 
her mother had come to her relief by sending her away to 
keep her brother company. But she carried away with her a 
new sensation. Gilbert had rushed to open the door for her, 
and, taking her hand as she passed out, he had put it to his 
lips with a few words of friendly kindness, and with his brown 
eyes alight with the same. 

It was in a tremour of excited feeling that poor Philipa sank 
down by her brother’s couch and prepared to answer his 
strangely eager questions about the stranger. The boy, as he 
listened to her, twisted and writhed as he was accustomed to 
do in the throes of physical pain, but on this occasion his suffer- 
ing was mental. Was he to blame that his moral nature was 
as narrow and meagre as his bodily frame and as his intelli- 
gence? It would have needed sustained and almost divine 
patience to have developed in his mind-— preoccupied from the 
cradle with his own pitiful individuality and further spoiled by 
injudicious indulgence — the high and unselfish virtues. 

When, a short time after, Gilbert entered his room with Mrs. 
Yorke and walked straight up to his couch with his hand 
stretched out and pity in his eyes, Edward locked his own 
hands together and refused the friendly greeting. 

His eyes had seized with a sort of desperate eagerness all the 
points of his cousin’s person, and the result had inflamed his 
animosity. It was seldom that his countenance was so alert, 
but the expression of it was like that of a beaten hound which 
snarls where it dare not bite. 

“I only shake hands with my friends,” he muttered. “You 
and I are not likely to be that. ” 

“ Then it will be your fault ! I have the best will in the 
world to be friends with you.” 

“ It will take more than that, ” sneered the boy. “ Mother, I 
will go to bed.” Gilbert drew back with head erect. His tem- 
per was sweet, but he had not the forbearance of a saint and he 
thought his cousin simply odious ; added to which disease and 
infirmity always excited in his mind an instinctive recoil that 
it needed a moral effort to overcome. 

“I, too, am very tired,” he said turning to his aunt, “and 
should like to go to my room. ” And then seeing Philipa, who 


COUSINS. 


89 


was sitting on a low chair in the shadow of the brother’s couch, 
he added : “ I hope you do not sit up at night. ” 

Edward stirrefl restlessly ; the sympathetic voice roused his 
resentment. “And if she does,” he said roughly, “is that 
any business of yours? You are not master of Rookhurst yet.” 

Gilbert smiled ; the poor fellow’s spite seemed so gratuitous 
and so pitiful. 

“I wonder why you have taken against me,” he said with a 
sweet indulgent smile, which the other found exasperating. 
^‘But perhaps we may get on better in the morning. I si. all be 
willing to try. ” 

And then he went away with good-night adieux to his aunt 
and Philipa, which the one found delightful and the other 
resented unreasonably as marking more sharply the lamentable 
difference between her nephew and her son. 

Things did not go pleasantly at Rookhurst during the next 
few days. Sir Owen has insisted upon seeing his invalid 
grandson in order, as he said, to judge for himself whether the 
improvement in his health of which his mother spoke was 
maintained, and Edward’s sullen shrinking from his presence 
and accost, although the latter was not unkindly, excited his 
angry displeasure. 

“It is easy to see,” he remarked to his daughter-in-law, “in 
what creed you bring your children up, and yet I have not been 
so bad a friend to you and yours. Philipa runs away if she 
catches sight of me, and the little imp here looks as if he would 
like to fly at my throat ! What sort of a reception did you get, 
Bertie V” 

“Ah, it was late and he was ill and tired, and in that case 
temper doesn’t count. I think I shall try and win him over 
with my Addle !” Mrs. Yorke looked at him as he spoke, and 
then dropped her eyes. The sight hurt her ; for here was one 
in generous possession of all that her unhappy son lacked, and 
she had not magnanimity enough to forgive him. It was in 
vain that Gilbert did his best to please her ; the very fact that 
he was in such favor with his grandfather that to please him 
needed no effort at all was a stone of stumbling and rock of 
offence to her ; nor was she in any way mollified by his atten- 
tions to Philipa, since their natural effect was to excite an 
enthusiasm of liking that irritated her own jealousy. 

But |to the young girl, who had been kept too strictly in the 
shadow of her brother’s affliction, this unexpected communion 


90 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


with health, youth, and vivacity was like a burst of sunshine. 
Gilbert had the power, which was simply the consequence of 
his own sincerity and naturalness, of setting everyone at their 
ease with him ; and Philipa, as she did the honours of the estate 
and neighbourhood, found her tongue loosened by his ready 
sympathy, and revealed her sorrows and aspirations as she 
would have thought impossible a few days ago. 

It may be supposed that the confidences were not all on one 
side. Gilbert made her acquainted with his lost mother and 
their life at Florence till the intensity of the girl’s fellow-feel- 
ing checked the passion of his reminiscences, and he followed 
up these disclosures by the revelation of his musical ambitions. 

Then he told her about his Uncle Martin’s family, and painted 
John Cartwright’s merits in terms so glowing that the boy 
would have laughed aloud could he have heard himself thus 
Homerically described, and Philipa been sorely disappointed had 
she met him in the flesh. But Gilbert Yorke saw everything 
he loved in a golden glamour. 

His talent as a violinist had been duly exhibited to his new 
kinsfolk, Sir Owen himself taking a certain reserved pride in 
the brilliancy of his gift ; but neither Mrs. Yorke nor her chil- 
dren were susceptible to the spell of music, and Gilbert saw 
with a pang of acute disappointment, in which not a particle 
of personal vanity mingled, that his loveliest melodies, which 
set his own soul on fire or dissolved it into softness, produced 
no effect upon them. 

Philipa looked at the musician with soft, admiring eyes that 
chafed his artist-sense almost more than indifference itself, 
and her mother coldly admitted that “no doubt he played very 
well for an amateur and so young a one, but that, personally, 
she had never cared for the violin. ” 

One of these performances had taken place, at Gilbert’s wish, 
in Edward’s room, but the boy soon put an end to it by stop- 
ping his ears and launching forth an angry protest. 

“Leave off!” he cried; “I cannot bear it! The thing speaks 
and cries ! Leave off, I say !” and the outraged musician 
restored his fiddle to its case in almost the worst humour he 
ever remembered. 

Sir Owen laughed delightedly ; it always amused him to see 
any one in a passion, and there was a gleam of anger in his 
grandson’s eyes fiercer than he had supposed they could express ; 
also he was not at all displeased to find that the relations he 


COUSINS. 


91 


had disparaged and Gilbert had been so eager to know were 
proving themselves almost as disagreeable as he had lepre- 
sented. 

“ We will get back to London, Bert, ” he said ; “ we are wast- 
ing ourselves here. Besides, it is high time you had found a 
bear-leader, and were started on your travels. You have three 
or four years of hard work before'you— worse luck ! for I should 
have liked nothing better than introducing you into society 
and seeing you make a figure in it. Eh ! what’s wrong? The 
notion doesn’t please you?” 

“I was thinking, if I had been allowed to follow my calling, 
what those three or four years of downright hard work would 
have made me. ” He pressed the violin he was still holding 
against his side, as if it had been a sentient thing and looked 
Sir Owen boldly in the face. “ Forgive me, he added, reading 
there the angry annoyance he had excited, “I can’t help 
fretting over my good fortune ! Society will never give me 
anything as good as what it takes away. 

It was this boldness, this absolute disregard of consequences, 
that gave Gilbert the advantage over his grandfather. He 
might mutter an oath, call him “fool” and “pleb,” and work 
himself into a furious passion, but all this left matters precisely 
where they were before. Had Sir Owen turned the boy out of 
doois on the spot he knew that he would have run back to 
Coplestone, joyful in the deliverance that put it in his power ' 
to carry out the ridiculous programme sketched in Mrs. Cart- 
wright’s letter, and with scarcely a right for the brilliant pros- 
pects he had dropped. 

On this occasion he let the matter pass with a contemptuous 
wave of the hand. 

“The friction of the world will rub down this folly,” he 
remarked; “it is the only mortar for a fool. May I ask if it 
will suit your convenience to leave Rookhurst to-morrow? 

“ Of course I am at your orders, ” said Gilbert ; “ only I was 
just going to beg you for two days’ leave of absence. Must we 
go to-morrow?” 

“You have friends in the neighborhood?” enquired the old 
man diplomatically. 

Gilbert smiled. “Yes, dear friends.” 

Sir Owen shrugged his shoulders. “Go, if you like, but 
remember your furlough lasts no longer than Thursday after- 
noon. We do not sit down to dinner without you. Will you 


92 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


take a horse or the dog-cart to the station? You know, I 
suppose, it is five miles off?” 

“ The dog-cart ; I am not used to ride, and it would be a poor 
return for all your kindnev«s to make myself a laughing-stock to 
your grooms. ” 

“Good Heavens!” ejaculated Sir Owen, and then amazement 
held him dumb. For a well-born Yorke not to be able to ride 
— albeit a good seat on horseback is difficult to acquire without 
the horse— was a deficiency that seenaed to partake equally of 
misfortune and disgrace ; but the spark of humour in Gilbert’s 
eyes, together with his delightful freedom from mauvaise 
honte, mollified his disgust. “For shame’s sake, boy, keep 
your own secret!” he exclaimed. “You shall have lessons as 
soon as you get to town — twelve hours out of the twenty -four !” 


CHAPTER XV. 

MRS. CARTWRIGHT DELIVERS HER SOUL. 

Gilbert, on getting out at the station at Copplestone, rushed 
off at once to his uncle’s shop, sure of a cordial welcome and in 
no sense disappointed. He had little difficulty in persuading 
Martin Cartwright to throw up business for ' the day and go 
home with him to Elm Lodge. 

“But John will be at the college,” he suggested eagerly. 
“ Dear uncle, write a note to Dr. Flemming on the spot asking for 
twenty-four hours’ leave of absence — we must have a night 
together like old times — and send a messenger with it at once. ” 

This was done, not without a twinkle in Martin’s eye as he 
penned his petition, recognising Gilbert’s anxiety to forestall 
possible opposition. The heart of the elder man, always warm 
to his sister’s son, grew warmer as the two, linked arm in 
arm, trod the well-known streets together and the boy poured 
forth the animated recital of his experiences. Martin Cart- 
wright had felt Gilbert’s absence acutely — it was a vital force 
dropped out of his life — and he took comfort, therefore, in the 
knowledge that what had cost him more than any one knew 
had resulted at least in his nephew’s gain. Looking at him 
critically he found him improved- To this result doubtless a 
London tailor had largely contributed, but he seemed more robust, 
and to his natural charm of manner there was a something added 
of growing manliness and self-restraint. 


MRS. CARTWRIGHT DELIVERS HER SOUL. 


93 


Mrs. Cartwright, who had been sitting reading in the after- 
noon quiet of the house, was disturbed and surprised at the 
sound of their footsteps ; she had just put down her book and 
had risen to leave the room to make enquiries when Martin 
and Gilbert entered together. 

“Here, mother,” said the former cheerily, “I have brought 
the truant home! You won’t refuse to take the lad back 
again ?” 

For a moment she lost her self-possession. Gilbert, who was 
watching closely the effect of the words, saw that not only did 
she turn pale, but that a look of distressed appeal came into her 
beautiful eyes as if against a blow she could neither bear nor 
understand. 

She struggled to speak, but seemed at a loss for the fitting 
words. This involuntary proof of her aversion gave him a pang 
deeper than she had ever inflicted before. He bit his lip in 
sharp vexation. 

“Don’t be frightened, aunt,” he said in a curious, constrained 
voice ; “ Uncle Martin is only joking. I have my grandfather’s 
leave to come and see you and John, but I go back to him 
to-morrow. With your leave,” he added, “I will run upstairs 
and see if my old room is looking as it used to do ;” and without 
heeding her hand, outstretched to restrain him, he turned and 
made good his escape. He had seen the burning glow of shame 
cover her face and the angry light in his uncle’s eyes, and he 
knew that one of the rare occasions was come when the husband 
ventured to reprove the wife and that he was the cause. 

He sat down in the old rocking-chair, which stood precisely at 
the same angle to the table as on the day he had first seen it, 
and swaying gently backward and forvrard ; brooded almost 
bitterly over the incident, so trifling but so significant. 

“After all,” he said to himself, “I am only a waif and stray! 
No one loves me. I have no imperative claim on any human 
being. Sir Owen Yorke and Aunt Cartwright are both equally 
free to turn me out of doors at a moment’s notice, and she 
would have the best inclination in the world to do it. Why 
does she hate me so?” 

His mind fell back sorrowfully upon his mother and upon all 
the unmatched love and tender sympathy that were buried in 
her grave ; but this grief was a hopeless one, and he put it 
from him with a sigh. It was better to think of possibilities 
still open to him — of the bright, imperious girl who had been 


94 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


his friend and comrade in Florence, who had risked so much 
to tell him how her warm heart ached for his loss and beat in 
tune with his now thwarted ambition. Would she have heard 
of the sudden change in his fortunes, and would the news seem 
to her good or bad, seeing she was almost as passionate a 
musician as himself? Yet it must be good if it brought them 
nearer ; at her dear feet he was even prepared to deposit the 
sacrifice of his hopes. 

It seemed as if he had sat alone a long time when the sound 
of familiar footsteps roused him at once. The door opened as he 
sprang to meet them, and the next moment he had seized John’s 
hand, dragged him across the floor, thrust him down into the 
depths of the easy-chair, taking his familiar perch on the arm, 
and flinging his own about his neck. It was proof of an 
unusual strain of feeling that for a moment or two neither of 
them spoke. Then John looked up. 

“ I did not expect this. The doctor was so kind ; he let me go 
at once and sent his love to you.” His eyes softened as he 
gazed at the other. “ I suppose you are pretty safe to be loved, 
(>ilbert, wherever you go?” 

“Don’t look like it, Jack! Your mother hates me like — sin, 
shall we say? — and my Aunt Yorke loves me little better. But 
never mind all that ! I want to hear all about yourself — the 
college, the doctor, the sort of life, and whether you are happier 
there than at home. Yes, Jack, you are ! There is a gladness 
in your eyes, you don’t pucker your brows so much, and I 
believe you are taller.” 

“Since we parted — six weeks ago?” 

“Aye, man! Six hours will do it in some cases, when the 
yoke is off and the back straightened and the head erect. 
Jack, you are looking different, as if your soul had more room 
to move ; you are not fretting, old fellow !” 

Jack smiled. “I am working very hard, which helps to keep 
trouble down, and — Dr. Flemming seems to understand me and 
that cheers me up. Still, I have my worries, though some 
things run pretty straight ; if I were at home I should miss you 
more, I think, than I could bear. But time is short — tell me 
about yourself ! You get on with Sir Owen Yorke? ” 

So the lads sat and talked in the gathering dusk, and again 
late af night before John turned into his own bed. He was to 
go back to the college the next morning after breakfast, and 
Gilbert was going with him to pay his respects to Dr. Flemming 


MRS. CARTWRIGHT DELIVERS HER SOUL. 


95 


and give in his report of himself before returning to Rookhurst. 
Each knew that they might not meet again for years, and both, 
in the abrupt inarticulate English fashion, renewed their pledge 
of friendship. 

Among other last words Gilbert said shyly : 

“Margery Denison will be at home long before I shall. Jack. 
You must find out all about her and send me word.” 

It had been on John’s tongue to say : “How will that be pos- 
sible?” but he looked into Gilbert’s face and held his peace, 
accepting the difficulty as part of the contract. 

The next morning, a few minutes before it was time for the 
lads to depart, Mrs. Cartwright called Gilbert into a room alone. 

“I wanted to speak’ to you by yourself,” she said with her 
grave smile, “because I think a mother is never bound to 
humiliate herself before her son, and I want you to forgive me, 
Gilbert, for what seemed yesterday like cruelty and hardness of 
heart. It was not really so, but you would not understand!— 
am not so hard toward you as you think, though you have done 
me an injury you can never repair.” 

“I !” 

“None the less of an injury because it was an involuntary 
one — perhaps so much the more. But I wish you well, and I 
want to say a few words of warning to you before we part, 
which if I did not say it would weigh on my conscience as a 
sin. Can you bear them?” 

“I would bear a great deal from John’s mother.” 

Her face fiushed, but the answer helped her to fulfil her duty. 

“ Circumstances have changed with you, ” she began, “ and, in 
my view, not for the better. Poverty and disappointment are 
harsh companions, but they help to keep a young man of your 
temper from going astray ; what measure of worth is in you 
will not stand the severe ordeal of worldly prosperity. I hear 
you are going abroad almost as your own master, and with the 
openly professed purpose of getting out of life all the personal 
enjoyment you can. It seems to me right to warn you that so 
long as this is your aim you will lose not only what you expect 
to find, but everything else that exalts a human creature above 
the brutes, who are irresponsible and therefore perish, and makes 
him in his poor degi-ee acceptable to God.” 

She stopped, her voice trembling a little with the strength of 
her feelings. 

Gilbert did not answer ; he was neither impressed nor irritated. 


96 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


A sentimeDt of indulgent tolerance was what his aunt’s stem 
pietism excited in his mind. She in her turn, looking at his 
face was moved to anger. “My words are of no account?” she 
said ; “ you reject my warning !” 

“It has been given me without option of rejection. Simply, 
I do not understand what you mean. What is it ‘I ought to do 
and to leave undone?” He smiled, then added : “I have never 
thought much of myself.” 

“If I explain you will not hear, but I will try to explain. 
You are self-deceived in thinking you have a low opinion of 
yourself ; you are full of pride and presumption. I would have 
you first of all pray to God to convince you of sin of which 
you have no knowledge. Without this you grope in the dark 
and cannot see the bearings of the spiritual life. Then I would 
have you take up the yoke of humility and self-denial, follow- 
ing, though at an awful distance, the example of Him whom 
even the natural man adores. It will lead you, Gilbert, into 
that strait path which you have never trod nor wished to 
tread ; for it lies over the neck of natural desire. ” Her face 
lighted up, and for a moment she looked at him tenderly. 
“Will you try,” she said softly. 

“Isn’t it possible to please God and others and self as well? 
Doesn’t it depend a little upon what one’s ‘natural desire’ is?”. 

“Ah!” she cried sharply, “that is the devil’s own snare; 
nature has done so much there is no room for grace ! Poor 
boy ! When the time comes, as come it will, that this pretty 
conceit of yourself crumbles into ashes, you will taste a 
humiliation much more bitter than that to which I have vainly 
exhorted you. But I have done !” 

“At least you will wish me well?” he asked. 

“I wish everybody well,” she replied, “but such wishes are of 
poor account. In your case I will wish you what you least 
wish for yourself. ” 

“I will accept your good wishes according to your own inter- 
pretation and be grateful, only — let us part friends 1 You were 
very good to me about Leipzig. ” He sighed. 

She looked at him attentively and then re-echoed his sigh. 
This gave him courage ; he went on like one who has taken a 
sudden resolution. “Dare I say one word of warning on my 
side? You know that I love John very dearly ; as long as I live 
I shall never forget how good he was to me when I first came 
here, miserable and a stranger. I know — forgive me — that you 


A CAMPAIGN CLOSED AND OPENED. 


97 


love him almost as well as my mother loved me. I should like 
to beg you to let him know it too.” 

“ Almost as well !” she repeated scornfully. She tried to gather 
herself up to sternness and self-repression, but the effort failed. 
Gilbert saw her proud lip quiver and tears dim her eyes. Then 
he caught her hand in both his and kissed it. 

“ I will love you for ever, ” he cried in his eager passionate 
way, “whatever you may think of me, if only you will comfort 
Jack when I am gone away !” 

And so they parted. 


CHAPTER XVI, 

A CAMPAIGN CLOSED AND OPENED. 

When Margery Denison came up to town from her Yorkshire 
solitude to make her courtesy to her queen and pass her first 
London season under the chaperonage of a distant kinswoman 
who had undertaken the office from a strong sense of family 
obligation, all the world expected that she would mend her 
fortunes by a splendid match. 

But Miss Denison returned home without being engaged ; 
indeed, amongst her nearest and dearest friends it was whispered 
she had not even received an offer of marriage, and the girl 
never contradicted the report. The experiment was repeated 
under the same protection a second season, and with the same 
result, but on this occasion a reason was assigned. Young Gil- 
bert Yorke, the grandson of the notorious old worldling. Sir 
Owen Yorke, was in town also, and in such constant attendance 
upon Miss Denison that the fact of their engagement was widely 
circulated and believed. It was so implicitly believed by Vis- 
count Thimberley, who had been hesitating ever since his first 
introduction to Margery whether he should lay his coronet at 
her feet and entreat her to forget the disparity between one- 
and-twenty and fifty years in consideration of his rent-roll and 
splendid constitution, that he left town without putting his 
fortune to the touch. 

“ I do not care about being a rejected suitor, ” he said confi- 
dentially to the sister who presided over his bachelor establish- 
ments, the first evening after his return to that charming little 
seat in Surrey which is the pride and envy of half the county. 

7 


98 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


He was sitting near the open window watching the sun set 
gorgeously behind the elm-tops, where he and his had watched 
the same spectacle for generations, with his cigar between his 
fingers and a cup of black coffee by liis side. “I saw that I 
had not a chance ; the fellow is ridiculously young in all the 
meanings of the word, with a tongue as glib as an Irish Nation- 
alist, and a prodigious knack with the fiddle ; Miss Denison is 
music-mad herself.” 

“And you,” said the lady smiling — she was naturally dis- 
posed to bear her brother’s disappointment with equanimity — 
“ are not able to tell one tune from another. I remember that 
at the last concert we were at you stood up for ‘ God Save the 
Queen’ when the band had just led off a series of Scotch airs 
with ‘Scots, wha hae !’ I think it is a good thing you have not 
married the girl, besides she has not a penny !” 

“Neither has young Yorke beyond what his grandfather 
allows him. All the world knows that Margery Denison is 
bound to marry money. ” 

He replaced his cigar and smoked meditatively, his sister 
adding, with a touch of female diplomacy : 

“ In that case, my dear Thimberley, you have still a chance ; 
no doubt the market will be open for you another season. ” 

The market was open, for Margery was again in town in the 
following spring, still “on her promalidy” as the fresh young 
debutantes delighted to whisper. But their freshness failed in 
the competition with her. Society was quite of one mind that 
she was more attractive and brilliant than ever. Had she had a 
fortune at her back she could not have borne herself with more 
pride of independence. If suitors came, they came unsolicited 
and unwelcomed, fascinated either by the spell of her beauty, 
her superb indifference, or of her racy speech, in which there 
was an odd mixture of ardour, keenness, and cynicism. 

To dance with Margery Denison was, so far as it went, a 
liberal education for any man ; but, when Gilbert Yorke was her 
partner, so perfect was the harmony of poise and sense that the 
waltz, instead of being a mere sensuous gratification, was 
spiritualised to the height of an artistic rapture. 

One night near the close of the season at a ball given by the 
French ambassador, Margery Denison and Gilbert Yorke had 
danced together with unusual frequency and delight, even in 
spite of the young lady’s accusing conscience and the protests 
of her chaperon. 


A CAMFAIGN CLOSED AND OPENED. 99 

“I have done wrong,” she said to him at last, “and I want to 
confess and explain. Find some quiet corner, where we can 
talk.” And Gilbert had found such a corner — palm-leaved and 
rose- perfumed in the deep embrasure of a window — and was 
sitting beside her as she slowly fanned herself waiting for her 
to speak, with every pulse beating with excitement. 

“ My excuse for behaving as I have done to-night, ” she began, 

“ is that it was my last chance. I go home to-morrow and Mrs. 
Anstruther washes her hands of me forever. I think she is 
justified, for I cannot deny that I have had my chances and 
thrown them away, but she is making things very hard for me 
by exasperating my father’s feelings against me. You will 
own that was hardly necessary. ” 

“ And why do you let such chances go? So long as you do this 
I ihall hope, even though you forbid me to hope. I could not 
live otherwise.” 

She smiled, her eyes glancing over his face and figure. 

“I don’t see a sign of discouragement in dress or aspect. 
You think I am necessary to you, but that is a mistake— the 
result of habit and old association. We are fond of each other, 
I allow, as comrades and friends ; but it would suit neither of 
us to pass life together. Trouble has made my vision clear. ” 
Her face hardened a little as she spoke. “I am sorry for my 
father,” she went on, “and would have met his wishes if I 
could. Indeed, I should have been guilty of a fraud if I had come 
to town for three successive seasons with any other intention. 
Like all women who keep the nature God gave them, I love wealth 
and ease and distinction, but I cannot buy them too dear — 
with my soul as well as my body. My hope was I might meet 
with some man who was able to give me these and for whom I 
could entertain a decent affection ; it was a wild hope, no doubt, 
and I did not fail to point that out to my friends, so that if they 
persisted in the belief that I should be tempted to take the one 

without the other the fault is not mine. Lord Thimberley 

there is no indelicacy of speaking to my friend of what he 
knows — is a kind, worthy man, and has shown great disinterest- 
edness ; but he is two years older than my father, and we have 
not an idea or interest in common. As a wife under those con- 
ditions I would not trust myself.” 

“Can I help you in any way?” he asked. 

She hesitated. “Yes, if I may put your loyalty to the test. 
You will be at Rookhurst sooner or later — I ask you not to come 


100 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


to the Chace. If my father knew — of this — he would draw false 
conclusions and make things still more unpleasant.” 

“If your father knew — of what?” asked Gilbert, leaning for- 
ward to look into her face. “ Margery, you allow that you love 
me !” 

Possibly it was the inflection of his voice or the expression 
of his face that touched her ; but, be that as it may, a wave of 
colour swept over her face and neck and brought the blood 
surging to Gilbert’s heart. But he controlled himself, being as 
much on guard as a knight of old watching his armour. 
Besides, he detected at once the look of acute annoyance that 
followed, how pale she grew and with what hard dignity she 
raised her head. 

“Yes, I have allowed that for years, ” she said, “and repeated it 
again to-night. Let me repeat, too, what I have been com- 
pelled also to say before — that it would be easier to turn dislike 
or indifference into the feeling you want than the sort of affec- 
tion I have for you.” 

The nineteenth century lover does not often turn pale under 
discussions of the tender passion, but Gilbert grew unquestion- 
ably paler. Margery had spoken not only with energy, but 
almost with bitterness. 

“You force me to appear odious,” she said, speaking rapidly 
and in a low tone, “but in fact I am j'our best friend. My 
father would not resent an engagement between us more 
stringently than would Sir Owen Yorke. Believe me, he would 
cut you off with a penny ; and, pardon me, you have become 
used to the spending of a good many. It is an art soon 
acquired, I perceive. I have no personal experience to fall back 
upon, but you have taken kindly to it. ” 

She got up and looked about her as if in search of her 
chaperon, her motive being to look anywhere rather than at her 
silent companion, but her impulsive kindness mastered her and 
she sat down again. 

“ It is of no use to be angry with a girl so miserable as I am, ” 
she said in the same low hurried tone, and touching his arm 
as if in deprecation. “I hate to complain, but you know to 
what a home I am going back and the prospect that life holds 
out to me. If you would lighten it a little, be on your guard 
not to excite my father’s suspicions. That is why I dared to 
ask you not to come to the Chace.” 

“ I will not come. ” 


A CAMPAIGN CLOSED AND OPENED. 


101 


“Thanks, but I shall long for you !” 

He smiled, for the thought passed through hi& mind that a 
woman’s tender mercies were cruel, but he did not express it. 
Margery, however, read him like a book. 

“You are right,” she said, blushing deeply, “and my selfish- 
ness is hateful. My poor excuse is that I have had no training 
in nobleness. You had a mother that might have spiritualised 
a clod, and instead of a clod to work on she had the finest, 
purest clay that was ever quickened by the vital spark. There, 
I see Mrs. Anstruther ! Take me to her, and then say good-night 
and good-bye to both of us. ” 

This dialogue had taken place some five years later than when 
we dropped the thread of a story that has been spun so closely 
over the record of those few months that marked the transi- 
tion-point in many lives, when Martin Cartwright walked home 
to his house through the November fog with his dead sister’s 
letter in his pocket. 

There are periods when life lingers to stamp a direct impress 
on every day and hour, and others when it marks its course by 
leaps and bounds, leaving scarce a trace behind. 

During those few months, John Cartwright had received two 
impressions that he was to carry to the grave with him : one 
the love, sudden as passion itself, excited by the unknown 
kinsman who brought into his dreary home the strange charm 
of sweetness and ardour, vivified by the touch of genius ; the 
other, a passion also, but disallowed and kept under. 

Margery Denison had captured, in utter unconsciousness, the 
locked soul of the awkward, reticent lad, from the first moment 
when he saw her brilliant, animated face and heard her voice 
as she leaned from the carriage to greet Gilbert Yorke with 
eager, friendly hands. A little later he had seen her again, dis- 
guised in a hideous mackintosh, which only served to throw 
into relief the beauty of the fresh, rain-dewed face, vivid with 
ardent welcome once more for Gilbert Yorke. 

From that time till the present he had been, unknown to her 
self, associated with Margery. Gilbert had left him a charge 
to keep, and John for his sake overcame his natural reluctance 
and ceaselessly sought for such news of her as could filter 
through the ordinary channels of gossip without offending his 
delicate sense of propriety, in order that he might transmit 
them to his friend. He knew when her holidays ‘began and 


102 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


ended, and when the term of school- life was fulfilled, and he 
even planned to find occasions of meeting her in her caiTiage 
or on foot, so that he might lift a furtive glance to her sweet 
face and remark whether it were smiling or sad. 

And so the slow years had run on. Four of them had been 
passed in the deep seclusion of Wesley College, where amongst 
many worthy competitors, John Cartwright was the ripest 
scholar and best beloved inmate. Unhappily the death of Dr. 
Flemming occurred in the second year of his residence and his 
successor was a man of a different spirit. Where the one had 
seen the sunshine of the Divine Fatherhood, the other walked 
in the shadows of the divine judgment ; the first had opened to 
the boys every avenue of legitimate delight, not degrading the 
senses but ennobling them, the last shut the door against all the 
amenities of life, reducing it to a sort of barrack -ground where 
the recruits were to be rigidly drilled for their future warfare 
against the world, the flesh, and the devil. 

Unfortunately again it happened to be a period of dissension 
and reorganisation in the Connexion, and the points of creed 
and discipline involved seemed of such supreme importance to 
the zealous doctor that he gave them a prominence both in his 
private and public teaching which dwarfed all broader issues. 
The question seemed less that his pupils should feel and do 
aright than that they should grasp the interests at stake and be 
prepared to defend them. 

He did not seem to have recognised the elementary truth that 
a selfish and ignoble life is quite compatible with a flawless or- 
thodoxy. 

The religious life which Dr. Flemming’s nurture had opened 
before John Cartwright as a divine organism capable of 
unlimited development, closed again and shut up his soul as 
within prison bars. 

His experiences were at this time severe. He seemed to 
withdraw into himself, keeping forever companionships at 
arm’s length, and while working at his books with a dogged 
persistency which secured the success he was indifferent to, he 
was secretly engaged in weighing the insoluble problems of his 
professed faith with an agony of solicitude. 

At this time, and it lasted long, he shrank from his mother’s 
eye as a criminal undetected. He would almost as soon have 
plunged a knife into her bosom as have told her the truth ; and 
as she watched him with a speechless anxiety he did his best 


A CAMPAIGN CLOSED AND OPENED. 


103 


to escape from her society. There were times when she would 
question him about his bodily health with an apprehension so 
intense that it consumed her strange reserve and let the secret 
tenderness appear. Once or twice the temptation almost mas- 
tered him to fall at her knees and pour out his burdened heart 
with his head hidden in her lap, but he never yielded from the 
grievous doubt how such a confession would be received. 

Probably his health would have given way under the strain 
had he been deprived of all outlet, but there was his friend and 
cousin, Gilbert Yorke. 

In an odd sort of way the stern and conscientious youth made 
of this bright and gay spirit his father confessor, writing to 
him every week, not of outside matters, which were few enough, 
but of the inward revolt and turmoil of his soul. Happily 
the letters did not run to great length— John Cartwright had 
a splendid gift of condensation — and Gilbert Yorke not only 
read them as a point of conscience, but with that sympathetic 
insight which is the last best gift of the imaginative faculty. 

He was at this time at Leipzig, under the care of the excellen:^ 
tutor his grandfather’s perspicacity had provided for him, and 
dividing his time between the university, where his natural 
aptitudes balanced a little his indifference to scholarship, and 
the conservatoire where his mixed talent and devotion were 
such as to make him the spoilt child of every professor. 

But full as his days were — for he took his share of the fun and 
the folly of the student-life by which he was surrounded — very 
few of John’s letters waited long for an answer, and if his own 
lacked authority and wisdom, they were imbued with the fellow- 
feeling which their recipient stood most in need of ; and some- 
times, with the unconscious truth of intuition, words were 
said or ideas suggested that had a certain power of healing in 
them. 

But in due course of time, on the details of which it is not 
our purpose to dwell, John Cartwright’s soul struggled forth 
from its eclipse of faith. It would have been a moral impos- 
sibility for such as he to have drifted into infidelity as great as 
the natural impossibility for a tree to survive which the axe 
has severed from the root. Whether he had imbibed it with his 
mother’s milk, or even before he awoke to conscious existence, 
the idea of a Supreme Being bound to His creatures, if not by 
golden chains, at least by irrefragable ties of connection, was 
part and parcel of his heart and brain. 


104 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


To stand orphaned of God, in a vacant universe, robbed of the 
divine imperative of duty and the obligation of responsibility 
would have been a bereavement so poignant and absolute that 
neither his strength of body or mind would have been able to 
sustain it. It is written, “He that doeth the will of God shall 
know of his doctrine,” and henceforth it was John Cartwright’s 
resolution to know no will of his own. 

And it was in this temper that he took his vows and entered 
on his ministry. 


CHAPTER XVH. 

AN EPISODE. 

Once during Gilbert Yorke’s residence at Leipzig the friends 
met. It happened in this way. The summer vacation of both 
the young men corresponded fairly in point of time ; and Martin 
Cartwright, seriously concerned at the drooping state of his 
son’s spirits, if not of his health, suggested that he should try 
the effect of foreign travel. 

He was at liberty to join his cousin in Leipzig, share the 
supervision of his tutor, and, if agreeable to all three, they 
could make a short tour in France and Italy ; he was prepared 
to be paymaster for the party. 

It was one of those few occasions when the good man did not 
take his wife into counsel until all his arrangements were 
made, and he silenced her strenuous opposition by the emphatic 
assertion ; “John must be roused !” 

John Cartwright came back effectually roused. The mere 
change of scene and the new excitement of travel stimulated 
his sluggish organs and quickened the flow of his blood. He 
had been born and bred in Copplestone and had seen nothing 
outside it but one or two places on the Yorkshire coast. For 
the first time he stood in the midst of great cities and heard not 
only the multitudinous hum of complex human life, but the 
ground-swell which historic ages leave behind them ; for the 
first time he got a glimpse of the magnitude of Art — a word 
that hitherto had meant very little to him — and perceived how 
pitiful man’s heritage would have been if no stones had been 
reared in Venice, no canvas painted by immortal hands in 
Rome and Florence, nor the divine Ideal of humanity released 
from the marble block that bound it in ancient Greece. Nor 


AN EPISODE. 


105 


was it, perhaps, the least of his privileges that for the first 
time his eyes drank in the unadulterated sunshine as it streamed 
over the fathomless blue water of the Maggiore Lake. 

All this was very good for John, but better still was the 
society of his cousin and his cousin’s tutor. The latter was a 
pleasant gentleman, a good scholar, and a moderate Churchman, 
and in the ordinary fiow of daily intercourse it sometimes hap- 
pened that talk fell into deeper channels, and that the close - 
texture and earnestness of John’s mind were permeated and 
relaxed by contact with a wider experience and a more benign 
intelligence. 

For the rest, the ties of friendship were strengthened ; if his 
cousin failed to meet some of the moral demands of his spirit, 
he satisfied him on all other points. It was still a pleasure to 
him, patiently conscious of his own deficiencies, to watch 
Gilbert, to whom every change of circumstance or experience 
seemed to develop some new charm without robbing him of the 
old. There was also Gilbert’s musical genius to be taken into 
account, which, in John’s opinion, separated n i from the rest 
of the world as something unique and unapproachable. 

And indeed the young man had such a fine gift that it did 
seem an infinite pity that he was going to dedicate his life to 
his art. He had of course improved beyond John’s capacity of 
estimate ; and when he saw the intense pleasure his performance 
gave him, he was anxious to drag his cousin to opera and 
concert-room, in order to open his ears still wider and to give 
him some more perfect notion of that phantom world of di- 
vinely ordinated sound which was to himself the central-point 
of life. But here John stood resolute. “ First, ” he said, “ my 
mother objects to these places of amusement ; secondly, I know 
quite well that I am so weak that I should not be able to stand 
up against the effects of what you describe. ” 

‘‘Why, what would happen?” asked Gilbert laughing. 

“A general melting away of all sense of duty and respon- 
sibility, leaving nothing behind but a mad craving to go on 
listening so long as I had ears to hear. I feel it with your 
fiddle, Gilbert, and you will own this would scarcely do for a 
Methodist parson. ” 

“And you will still be that?” 

“ Please God and my masters, I will ; but that remains to be 
seen. ” 


106 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE DEAD HAND. 

At twenty-three years of age Sir Owen Yorke congratulated 
himself on the success of his grandson’s training. 

Gilbert had passed through his university course both in Ger- 
many and at Oxford — not, indeed, with any brilliancy as scholar 
or prizeman, but with just that degree of distinction which 
becomes a gentleman, and his social success had been con- 
siderable. 

After he had taken his degree Sir Owen encouraged him to 
taste the full delights of a London season, exerting himself to 
introduce him to all the “smart” and influential people of his 
own acquaintance, and being quite ignorant that Gilbert’s 
intense enjoyment of his privileges depended upon the fact that 
he either met or hoped to meet Margery Denison at the great 
houses to which each had the entree. 

The autumn was spent at Rookhurst, Sir Owen laying claim 
to his grandson’s companionship and attendance as "his failing 
health disinclined him for any further exertion in the pursuit 
of pleasure, either on his own behalf or Gilbert’s. 

“You owe me a good deal,” the old man said to the young 
one, and I expect to be paid back a little. Suppose you try to 
make yourself as agreeable to me as I am told you do to other 
people !” 

Gilbert responded loyally to the appeal and proved a delight- 
ful companion, . accommodating himself to the humours of the 
querulous and exacting invalid with that natural sweetness of 
temper which makes it an open question in ethics whether his 
merit were less or more because it cost him so little. 

Then he was the blessed possessor of a superb hobby, and one 
to which he had not much difficulty in reconciling his grand- 
father. Sir Owen was a man of considerable musical discern- 
ment and was able to appreciate and enjoy in moderation Gil- 
bert’s violin, and the musician himself had tact and discretion 
enough never to weary him. 

But Sir Owen went early to bed ; and then, shut up in his own 
chamber in the square tower above the gateway, out of earshot 
of the household, Gilbert’s hours of pure rapture set in. 

He was now a skilled, almost a consummate, musician, and 


THE DEAD HAND. 


107 


Sir Owen’s kindness had provided him with an instrument of 
almost priceless worth, while his ardour was so pure and 
sincere as to be able to dispense w th an audience. Whether 
such periods of refined self-indulgence were altogether salutary- 
may be doubted. 

Music^ of however high an order, has the inevitable tendency, 
by exalting the senses and stimulating the imagination, to 
plunge the spirit of a man into that region of infinite desiro 
and inexplicable yearning which drains the sap from resolution 
and endeavour. 

It was in such hours as these that Gilbert fed his passion for 
Margery Denison, endowing it and her and himself with a 
golden glamour that had its rise undoubtedly in his constitu- 
tional fidelity, but which took its most exquisite tints from the 
medium through which he contemplated it. 

He had already had the opportunity of meeting her in town, 
of which he had made all the use that a lover could who was at 
once patient and devoted, and he had gone to the Chace to pay 
his respects to the family- once or twice since his return to 
Rookhurst, undismayed by the coldness of his reception. That 
he should meet her in town again in the spring was the base on 
which all his plans and hopes for the coming season were fixed. 

Sir Owen was anxious, if his health permitted, to be in Lon- 
don in April. He had a great desire (not shared by his grand- 
son) to get him the post of attache to some European embassy, 
and he believed himself to have infiuence with our ambassador 
at Vienna, who was expected to be in town on urgent private 
affairs about that date. 

“I rely, Bert,” he said, “not on your possession of any 
special endowment of brains, but on your good looks and good 
manners. Your knowledge of the modern tongues, too, ought 
to stand you in some stead, and then you are an excellent dancer. 
You will find that useful, though the fiddle may prove a nui- 
sance. ” 

Sir Owen rallied sufficiently to carry out his programme and 
take his grandson up to town with him, but to his disappoint- 
ment the great man delay^ed his coming. It was not such to 
Gilbert himself. Margery was in town, as we have described, 
for her last season, and it was during this time that the inci- 
dents occurred which we have related earlier. Owing to her 
father’s peremptory orders, based on her rejection of Lord 
Thimberley’s offer of marriage, she had gone back to her York- 


108 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


shire home before Sir Hugh Daliymple made his appearance in 
London. When he did arrive, however, all went smoothly. 
He was about to enjoy a well-earned holiday, and was in the 
best of spirits. Sir Owen had no occasion to recall to his mind 
the circumstance on which he grounded his claims to his 
favour — namely, a certain obligation which he had conferred 
upon the ambassador in his youth, who was at that time a dis- 
tinguished but impecunious youngster and he himself a wealthy 
and experienced man of the world. It had not cost the one 
much personal risk, and the other accepted it as a favour never 
to be fully discharged. Sir Hugh Dalrymple was the first to 
allude to it, and to express his regret that since that time he had 
found no way of marking his gratitude except by empty words. 

Nothing could have been more opportune. Gilbert was pre- 
sented and the favour asked and granted. Six weeks later the 
young man left London in the suite of an ambassador whose 
favour was the sign -manual of personal distinction, for it was 
never lightly won nor lightly lost. 

Sir Owen, in a thoroughly complacent frame of mind, went 
down to Dover to see his grandson off, in spite of a previous 
passage of arms on account of Gilbert’s having carried out his 
stubborn determination not to leave England without going 
to bid his cousin, John Cartwright, good-bye. His pledge to 
Margery was binding, but he wrote to tell her of his destination ; 
and he besought her, not in vain, to meet him once more in the 
Seamoor Meadows, and to wish him “ God- speed. ” 

He was not so cheerful as his grandfather as they stood on 
the deck of the steamer exchanging their farewells. Sir Owen 
had made arrangements with his bankers for placing a really 
munificent allowance to the young man’s credit, and his last 
words were : 

“I object to your running into debt, and you will have no 
excuse to do so, but my wish is that you should be able to take 
the position of my grandson and probable heir. ’Pon my soul, 
you are a lucky dog ! Vienna is the crown of the civilised 
world ! You will rub off there the last taint of your provin- 
cialism. ” 

On his homeward way to Rookhurst the old baronet stopped to 
pay a short visit to his daughter-in-law at her pretty little 
place in Surry, an estate estimated at about £2, 000 a year. He 
had a cynical pleasure in telling her about his other grandson’s 
successes, for which he is not to be forgiven. Besides, he liked 


THE DEAD HAND. 


109 


to take, as he expressed it, periodical stock of the condition of 
Edward Yorke, who still persisted in living on in spite of the 
conclusive advantages to be derived from his decease. 

He found things curiously the same as when he had last seen 
them, except that they were all just so many years older. 
The invalid, who appeared to be neither better nor worse, 
still lay on his couch and ruled the household from it with, in 
a sense, a whip of scorpions. Mrs. Yorke looked more aged 
than the years alone would have made her, and her temper, 
as Philipa could have borne witness, was sharper and more 
irritable. 

The girl herself — but we will hear Sir Owen on this point : 
“ Why, Bella, I declare the child has positively grown ! If she 
were better dressed and in better health — what a pity you can- 
not exchange complexions ! — she would be almost presentable. 
She has finer eyes even than her mother. By and by we shall 
be obliged to see what we can do for her.” 

“By and by!” repeated Mrs. Yorke acidly. “Philipa is now 
twenty-one. May I ask what appears to you the proper age for 
a girl to go into society?” 

“Precisely at the age that commends itself to her mother; it 
is evident that period has not arrived. I shall have to find a 
chaperon for my granddaughter myself next season. Philipa, 
my dear, look to me ; you shall have a better chance in the 
world than you have reason to expect. ” 

But when next season opened Sir Owen was ailing too much 
to think of any interest so remote as Philipa Yorke, at least in 
the way that he had promised. He refused to have his grandson 
sent for, believing that he would rally again, as he had so often 
done before. But this was not to be so : life, fortified by a 
constitution of iron, was spun out to its last filament. He w^as 
found dead in his bed one fine May morning when his valet 
entered the room at the usual hour, with every appearance of 
having passed away peacefully in his sleep. 

His will had been made soon after Gilbert’s departure for 
Vienna and placed in the hands of Mr. Percival, the old family 
solicitor, head of the firm, Percival & Kenyon, Yorke, with 
the instructions that it was to be read aloud immediately after 
the funeral to whatever relatives and friends might be in 
attendance. 

The testator had it in his power to alienate every acre and 
shilling he possessed from the man who was to succeed to the 


110 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


empty title — Edward Yorke, the son of Sir Owen’s eldest son — 
and he exercised that power. 

With the exception of legacies to his servants, wdiich did 
not err on the side of liberality, and one of five thousand pounds 
to his daughter-in-law, all that Sir Owen possessed in land or 
personalty was bequeathed to his grandson, Gilbert Yorke. 

The bequest, however, was not absolute. Some desire to 
redress the balance of injustice had probably stirred the old 
man’s conscience and induced him to base the condition of 
inheritance upon Gilbert’s marriage with his first cousin, 
Philipa Yorke within two years of the testator’s death. 

In default of compliance on the man’s side, the estate was 
devolved on a distant kinsman, with an allowance of three 
hundred a year to the recusant and five hundred a year to the 
girl he rejected. 

Curiously enough, no provision had been made to meet the 
contingency of Philipa ’s refusal to marry Gilbert Yorke. 

The lawyer had duly pointed out the necessity, but his client 
had refused to recognise it. The young man, he declared, was 
irresistible, and the girl already over head and ears in love 
with him ; besides he objected to put on record his belief in a 
woman’s capacity to renounce a fortune. 

The will was read in full conclave after the due performance 
of somewhat ceremonious obsequies, Sir Owen Yorke being laid 
to rest with his fathers in the vault beneath the chancel of the 
old parish church, with a large gathering of assistant clergy and 
an elaborate choral service, according to his own written 
instructions. The heir was not present at either ceremony, 
being struck down with typhoid fever, and lying sick at the 
house of the Engllth ambassador in the Landstrasse, Vienna. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 

It was four o’clock in the afternoon of midsummer’s day, 
and the season was in harmony with the calendar. The sky 
was without a cloud and the atmosphere seemed to palpitate 
with light and heat. 

Cyril Denison sat in a deep-cushioned chair in the library of 
the Chace, and gazed wearily at the scene outside. 


FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 


Ill 


The limes and chestnuts, which formed one of the most 
effective features of the pleasure-grounds surrounding the 
house, were in full beauty — every leaf and blossom at the point 
of perfect development, and yet retaining the tender freshness 
of spring. The air was so still that not a leaf stirred, and the 
shadows upon the grass were as motionless as if cast in stone. 
Even the birds were silent, except at intervals the drowsy coo 
of a wood-pigeon from a distant plantation, murmuring to her- 
self in the depth of her content. 

So far the outlook was beautiful, but of the beauty Cyril Deni- 
son saw little or nothing. His eyes were fixed on the flaws in 
the picture. The small garden immediately round the house 
was in f^ir order, but he was looking beyond toward neglected 
lawns, untrimmed borders, and straggling flower-beds. The 
pleasaunce of the Chace had been planned for full coffers and a 
staff of gardeners, and quite exceeded the means at the disposal 
of the one man and boy which was all the present reduced 
establishment supplied. 

Weeds sprang up at intervals through all the length of the 
broad gravel -walks that wound hither and thither, following 
the picturesque undulations of the ground, and the gravel itself 
was gray and sunken. In one once charming comer of the 
demesne there had been a large fish-pond, but the reservoir had 
long been empty ; the marble parapet was chipped and broken, 
and a huge willow, which had hung over the brink as if to see 
its own reflection, was dead from drought, and its ungainly 
branches stood out stark against tte deep blue sky. The mstic 
bench beside it stood in need of the carpenter’s hammer and 
nails, and the long green “ride, ” as it was called, which stretched 
for a quarter of a mile from this point to the park beyond, and 
the sward of which in other days had looked like a strip of 
green velvet, was now lush w ith flowering grasses and wild 
clover. 

There is, perhaps, something in the decadence and neglect of 
a house meant for wealth and pleasure more depressing than in 
the sight of abject poverty itself ; the force of contrast accen- 
tuates the misfortune, and there is an instinctive impression 
that good birth and fine feeling go together — an impression that 
must not be mistaken for an axiom. 

Cyril Denison suiweyed these evidences of his low estate with 
a bitterness that never seemed to grow less, adding to what he 
saw the knowledge of what was out of sight, and to this again 


112 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


the perpetual revolt of his spirit not only against this condition 
of things, but against the physical misery he was called upon to- 
endure. Trouble and pain, whether of body or mind, leaves no 
man where they find him : if they do not purify and exalt, they 
exasperate and degrade. 

In the world beyond his broken park-poles every pleasure of 
sense, from the desire of the eye and of the ear trained to nicest 
discernment, down to the more unbridled pride of life were, at 
that very hour, in fullest swing and exercise, while he, more 
susceptible of pleasure than one man in a thousand, was cut off 
from his natural inheritance. At all points he had been beaten 
and baffled by fate, thwarted or disappointed in every under- 
taking to which he had laid his hand, or been fool enough to 
trust his heart, pampered and shut in by poverty before he had 
half-drained the wine of life ; and yet even poverty was not the 
worst. 

Even as the thought pressed upon him a spasm of pain made 
his frame quiver and whitened his lips. 

It was not a happy moment for the door to open and his 
daughter to come in ; he had heard her before she entered trilly 
the air, “Come ever-smiling Liberty,” in her delicious voice, 
and his face had darkened as he listened. It was not because 
he was insensible to the charm of her song or disparaged her 
graces any more than her gifts, but because, being thus endowed 
for the market of the world, she had returned empty. Add to 
this that health and energy, lightness of heart and liberty of 
action were, if not an offence to Mr. Denison, at least the cause 
of intense irritation. 

He looked up as she came nearer, and, having looked, he 
closed his eyes as if the sight were disagreeable. 

Margery was at this time twenty-two years old, with every 
grace and charm fulfilled which her delightful girlhood had 
promised. She was rather a goddess than a sylph, being tall 
and erect, with finely-proportioned length of limb and a poise 
of the head upon the beautiful neck and shoulders which looked 
like pride, but was not. She was also in possession of such 
perfect and harmonious health that her aspect suggested nothing 
so much as the idea of immortal youth. 

She wore a white gown with a bunch of yellow roses at her 
throat, and the heat of the weather had made her a little pale, 
but colour was no necessary adjunct to the beauty of her face. 
Her expression, which had been bright and gay when she 


FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 


113 


entered, changed to seriousness as her eyes fell on her father ; 
for the hard times under which Cyril Denison groaned were not 
unshared by his daughter. One could perceive that there was 
something anxious and tentative in her speech and movements. 

She took a seat on a couch near him and looked, as he was 
looking, out of the open window, not speaking for a moment 
or two. Then she said, in a low caressing voice : 

“ Do you like that position best, dad ? From the other win- 
dow we see nothing but a lovely corner of the park and smell 
the roses in the home-garden. Let me move your chair?” 

He shook his head impatiently. “ I am neither a woman nor 
a fool, ” he said, “ to forget a thing because it is not before my 
-eyes. You had better go away, Madge. I am in the clutch of 
my enemy ; you can do me no good. ” 

“Oh, that I could — just take turns with you in your pain !” 
She got up and knelt beside his chair, passing her arm behind 
it and leaning her head against his shoulder. The sun smote 
her bowed head and turned the bronze to gold, the perfume of 
the roses she wore and the tender pressure of the hand which 
had fallen across his knee touched Mr. Denison’s perceptions 
acutely. Besides, her whole attitude, as well as the tones of 
her voice, expressed the most intimate sympathy. 

“Get up!” he said in a stifled voice. “You might know by 
this time how little value I set on idle professions of love and 
duty. When it was in your power to help me you refused.” 

She smiled, with her sweet face still close to his own, for she 
had not risen, as he had bidden her. 

“Is it the old story, dad? After all this time — nearly Pv^^elve 
months — is it possible that you are thinking of Lord Thim- 
berley ! Well, if I grant that I made a mistake, it is at least a 
mistake long past mending. Let us dismiss that subject for 
ever. Consider : he was two years older than my father !” 

“ If he had been two years older than your grandfather, ” was 
his answer as he shook himself free of her embrace, “the 
inducements would have been the same. Of what consequence 
is the age of her husband to a woman who respects herself? We 
don’t live nowadays in the Forest of Arden ! A girl like you” — 
he glanced at her sharply as she stood a little turned away from 
him — “might have had society at her feet, and could have chosen 
her friends with discretion. It is not to be forgiven that you 
have had such a chance and turned your back on it. ” 

“ I know, I know, ” she cried eagerly, “ that the only way to 
8 


114 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


your favor was to make myself unworthy of it. But why, I ask 
again, do you rake up these miserable ashes of our feud to-day? 
It [can do no good : under any view of the case my repentance 
would come too late.” 

A look of painful eagerness came into Mr. Denison’s face; 
he put his hand in the pocket of his lose gown and pulled out a 
letter. 

“ Read that, ” he said, “ and let me hear reason from you at 
last.” 

The letter was from her friend and chaperon, Mrs. Anstruther^ 
and was addressed to Mr. Denison as a privileged communication. 
She told him that she had met Lord Thimberley a few days pre- 
viously, and that he had anxiously sounded her in respect to 
Margery, giving her to understand that if the young lady were 
still free he was as bound as ever. 

“ He seemed delighted, ” the letter ran, “ at the turn of affairs 
with young Gilbert Yorke — I mean, that he succeeds to the 
property only on the condition that he marries his cousin. Lord 
Thimberley looked upon him, whether with or without reason, 
as his most dangerous rival. A word of encouragement would 
bring him to the Chace. ” 

It is embarrassing, when reading a letter, to know that your 
face is being closely watched in order to discover the effect pro- 
duced. Margery’s grew crimson under Mrs. Denison’s gaze. 

“Is this true,” she asked, nerving herself to look up boldly. 
“ I had not heard of it before. ” 

“ It is scarcely likely that you should. A man of Lord Thim- 
berley ’s age and position would think twice before he exposed 
himself a second time to the insult of rejection.” 

“I did not mean that. I mean, is it true that Sir Owen Yorke 
has made such a will?” 

A muttered expletive passed Mr. Denison’s lips. It was very 
seldom that he was betrayed into an oath — a weakness, indeed, 
to which men of a different temperament, less arid and close- 
textured than his own, are more susceptible But the present 
provocation he found too much for him. 

“Am I to believe,” he demanded in a voice shaken with 
passion, and acerbated by pain, “am I to believe that Lord 
Thimberley’s suspicion is correct, and that it is this half-bred, 
fiddling jakanapes that stands between you and him? By ” 

But before the word could escape him Margery had inter- 
rupted him with an almost passionate disclaimer. 


FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 


115 


“No, no, it is not true — on my honour it is not true !” 

He made a movement as if he would have drawn her towards 
him, but stopped short lest endearment should be premature. 

“Do not trifle with me!” he urged. I cannot bear it. I am 
suffering the torments of -the damned 1 Speak the one word I 
want !” 

His drawn, white face tore the girl’s heart with pity. 

“Oh, let me help you to the couch!” she entreated, trying to 
put her strong young arms about him, and raise him from his 
chair, but he pushed her away with a violent effort. 

“ Answer or leave me, ” he said, in gasps of speech ; “ and if 
you answer amiss I care not if I never see your face again. You 
have thwarted me from the hour of your birth !” 

“Ah, yes,” she returned with generous indulgence, “I know 
what a cruel disappointment that must have been ; but, consider, 
it was not my fault, and ever since I have been trying to make 
up for it ” 

He interrupted her angrily, rocking* himself at the same time 
backwards and forwards in his chair : 

“Words, mere words! The power to do is in your own hands 
again. In what sense am I to answer the letter? Speak or go !’^ 

It was a crisis in her life, balanced, as it were, by a thread. 
Had there been a touch of tenderness in his appeal — the least 
response to her sympathy — the chances are she would have 
yielded. As it was the expression of the eyes, gazing into her 
own, hardened her heart. Was she to sacrifice her life, with 
all its untasked energies of love and happiness, to the selfish 
ambition of a father who regarded her very existence as a super- 
fluity, and who could derive from it no real personal benefit? 

At the same time she dared not openly defy him — not that she 
lacked courage, but because his sufferings were so severe. 

“ I cannot decide on the spot, ” she said at length — “ you must 
give me a little time to consider ; ” and then she added, with a 
tone and gesture hard to resist : 

“ But must I go away? Will you not let me try and help you a 
little? Williams is out this afternoon, but I am as good as he if 
you will only believe it !” 

Williams was Mr. Denison’s valet and nurse, and in the par- 
oxysms of his master’s neuralgic malady often brought him re- 
lief by friction and certain modes of manipulation in advance 
of the massage of to-day. 

Almost to Margery’s surprise her father yielded and suffered 


116 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


her to help him to the sofa. In truth his pain was overmaster- 
ing, and there was something in the girl’s abundant health and 
vigour that excited in his morbid and envenomed mind the de- 
sire to put its resources to the proof : added to this, sympathy so 
eager and outspoken as hers always produced a sense of humili- 
ation in his mind. 

“ Come, ” he said with a sneer, as she knelt on the floor beside 
him and prepared to fufll her task, “Come and let us see how 
long your precious pity will sustain you !” 

Margery was no saint, and the tone and implication brought 
the Are to the eyes that were so tender a moment before. Some 
impulsive protest rushed to her lips, but she checked it ; the 
physical distress of the man before her would alone have braced 
her to heroic patience, even if he had not been her father. As 
it was, she added to her protracted service the sacriflce of silence. 


CHAPTER XX. 

A NEW SENSATION. 

There are moods of mind when it seems as if the convictions 
and beliefs of a life-time were overthrown and the faculty of 
readjustment lost. 

When Margery Denison was at length released by her father 
from attendance, she went to her own room and locked the door 
with the feeling that no privacy could be deep enough. 

The sick man’s provocations had been, if not beyond the en- 
durance of her strained self-control, at least beyond the power 
of her forgiveness. The relations between father and daughter 
had always been unhappy to the point of being unnatural ; his 
cold-blooded selfishness was so absolute that filial feeling was an 
impossibility. 

Her own training had been, as we know, defective and hap 
hazard ; she had grown up without being brought into intimate 
contact with any one worthy of respect or imitation, and all that 
there was of good and noble in her was the spontaneous outcome 
of a fine nature quickened into fruitfulness by reflection and 
imagination. 

It seems a curious fact to record, but the girl had never seen 
an example of unselfish devotion until circumstances made her 
acquainted with Christina Yorke and her son ; it was a spiritual 


A NEW SENSATION. 


117 


revelation, and taught her a lesson she never forgot, developing 
in her ardent young mind the ambition to be magnanimous — an 
ambition that slackened inevitably under the severe tests to 
which her home-life exposed it. 

The two years she spent in Paris under Mme. Coligny’s care 
had done her good. The whole environment was pleasant and 
wholesome, and the teaching she received renewed her moral 
aspirations and saved her from drifting into aimlessness and 
indifference. 

But at the period of her return to the Chace her father had 
taken up his permanent abode there, unrelieved by the occasional 
absences which had helped to make life bearable. 

Then had followed her London campaign. She was perfectly 
aware with what object her father and her aunt strained their 
meagre resources to provide the expenses of these seasons in 
town, and in a qualified sense she was prepared to forward it. 
Against a purely mercenary marriage her will was indignantly 
set, but there was just the probability that fortune might be so 
singularly kind as to bring to her feet some suitor who possessed 
the qualifications insisted upon by her father as well as. those 
which made up her own ideal. 

Do not conclude that this ideal was extravagant. We desire 
for the most part what we miss ; and the virtue that ranked 
supreme in Margery Denison’s mind, and which she thought 
would suffice to win her reverence and love, was the virtue of 
unselfishness — a quality of shy growth in the heated atmosphere 
of London society. 

Since the failure of his hopes — now unhappily resuscitated — 
Mr. Denison had reluctantly abandoned the idea of mending his 
broken fortunes at his daughter’s expense ; he had made great 
sacrifices, and they had been rendered abortive not by the 
stubbornness of circumstances, but by her own — a course of con- 
duct which deserved to be visited with harsher penalties than a 
sick man had the power to inflict. 

He succeeded fairly well, however, in making the proud, soli- 
tary, sensitive girl acutely miserable, in spite of the natural 
high flow of her spirits and energy. Well for her that the old 
Broadwood still stood in the library, and that she had the power 
of losing the sense of personal pain in the pages of a book, in 
the glory of a sunset or in noble sympathy with the sufferings 
of her thankless persecutor. 

But on this Sunday in question, after she was set at liberty by 


118 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


Mr. Denison, the power of mental resilience seemed to have 
deserted her. True, she was now free — this matchless mid- 
summer evening — as her father had told her, to go where she 
liked and do what she liked ; but when does fate seem more 
ironical than in providing the opportunity without the means 
of improving it? What could she do? Where could she go? 

She and her aunt had long been cut off even from such society 
as the neighborhood offered, for Mr. Denison’s pride was of that 
tenacious sort that all courtesy and hospitality that could not be 
repaid to the uttermost farthing were an offence and a burden. 
He had given his daughter her chance which she had flung 
ignominiously away ; henceforth he was justified in constraining 
her to submit to the social seclusion that suited himself, and 
Margery was too proud to complain. 

But to-day, as she sat wearily on the deep- cushioned seat be- 
neath her windows, with her arms crossed on the sill and her 
aching head bowed upon them, the desire for companionship 
and sympathy burned hot within her. 

She thought of Gilbert Yorke and dismissed his idea with a 
tender smile ; did no other obstacle stand between them, the 
strong objection manifested by Sir Owen Yorke to their intimacy 
would have sufficed, for her pride was as tenacious as the sense 
of poverty alone can render it. 

Then she asked herself a question which she had never asked 
herself before — namely, whether to marry Lord Thimberley was 
not perhaps after all the best thing she could do? He was a 
well-intentioned, honourable man — one who had proved himself 
faithful and disinterested beyond most, and he would make life 
(life that was becoming day by day more insupportable) very 
easy for her. 

She decided to consider the argument out of doors, but before 
going out she would drink a cup of tea with her aunt and tell 
her that she felt she stood in need of a walk. It was never 
Margery’s habit to draw upon Mrs. Sutherland’s sympathy; her 
brother gave her her own burden to bear, and hers was the nature 
that solicits support, but is never competent to yield it. 

Half an hour later saw Margery walking swiftly down the 
avenue of limes towards the gates that led out upon the public 
high-road, though at this point it was a very secluded one. Her 
feeling was to put a long distance between herself and her un- 
happy home and to breathe, some purer air than that which shut 
it in. She walked swiftly, though her limbs were still cramped 


A NEW SENSATION. 


119 


and tired and the evening was hot, because she was of that eager 
temper which makes the body obedient to the motions of the 
mind and hers was in a state of strong excitement. 

It is one of the dicta of the exemplary Southey that there are 
few troubles that cannot be ivalked dovm, but Margery had 
walked some miles before she was conscious of much improve- 
ment in her condition. 

Then she drew rein, as it were, and looked about her to try 
and ascertain where she was, heaving at the same time a heavy 
sigh, partly from the fatigue of which she had not been conscious 
in her deep brooding thought, and partly to dismiss the weight 
of the controversy that oppressed her. 

She perceived that she had reached a neighboring village 
which lay beyond the limits of her usual walks, but which she 
distinctly remembered having been taken to by her nurse as a 
child. 

Leaning against a gate which opened on a pasture-field where 
some cattle were grazing, Margery paused and gazed. 

The scene before her was not particularly picturesque, but 
there was a homely charm about it that pleased her in her pres- 
ent mood better than beauty. The sun was still more than a 
full hour above the horizon, its slanting beams falling on cottage - 
roofs and gardens that seemed eloquent of Sunday quiet. Were 
their inhabitants all abroad and, if so, where? She saw no 
groups of idlers sauntering in the fields or dotting the long lane 
that stretched to her right. 

Possibly, she thought, with an indulgent smile, they were all 
assembled within the walls of the humble, slated, red-brick 
meeting-house which filled the foreground of her picture, and 
which is a familiar object in most of the villages of the West 
Riding. 

The country was but scantily wooded, but close to the spot 
where Margery stood a tall sycamore tree was planted, and as she 
looked up it was into a delicious maze of pale pendant blossoms 
clustering under the fresh leafage, while higher still the swallow 
and the swift we, re careering, with wings sharply pencilled 
against the deep blue sky. From the way -side hedges came the 
sweet smell of the wild rose and the honeysuckle, and in the 
remote distance the gray-green moors rose in undulating masses, 
cutting the sky line. 

Margery gazed until she felt her eyes were full of tears ; the 
silence and the peace seemed to deepen the weight at her heart 


120 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


and to aggravate her troubles. The very keenness of her relish 
for all the innocent pleasures of life seemed to mark the incon- 
gruity of the cramped and maimed existence she was condemned 
to lead. 

It was all so intolerable that she had been driven to face an 
alternative more intolerable still. ^ 

At this moment a harsh sound broke the silence and called off 
Margery’s attention from herself. She perceived that it was the 
opening of the chapel-door, which squeaked on its hinges, and 
that a woman came out carrying a cryint baby in her arms. 
Margery watched her with a sympathetic $mile as she made her 
way to one of the more distant cottages. ^ 

“ Poor soul, ” she said to herself , “she will take it hard that 
she has lost the sermon !” 

The chapel-door remained open — indeed, that it should ever 
have been shut in such weather upon the crowded congregation 
was marvellous — and Margery heard that a hymn was being 
raised. The voices of the singers were not highly trained ac- 
cording to the canons of Italian opera, but the gift of fine nat- 
ural organs and of musical perception is part and parcel of a 
Yorkshireman’s inheritance, and the girl listened with a sort of 
gracious allowance that quickened into a sense of pain and 
yearning. 

Unable to distinguish the words at the distance and yet drawn 
by a curious spiritual magnetism, she approached the building 
closer, and looking in her presence was at once detected and a 
man sitting near the door arose and invited her to come in. 

Margery entered and placed herself in a quiet corner, anxious 
to escape as much as possible from the observation she had al- 
ready aroused. Indeed, the man’s accost had been so friendly 
and she was so weary both in body and mind that the proposal 
was a grateful one. Nor was the scene altogether unfamiliar 
to her ; for in her neglected childhood she had often accompanied 
the few servants of the house to their respective chapels, and 
they had been, if larger, almost on the same lines as the bare, 
clear, barrack -like room in which she now found herself. 

She was quite aware that this was one of the Wesleyan village - 
chapels sown broad cast over the country by the zeal of the 
Connexion and served for the most part by young men on their 
probation. 

The pews were of white deal, straight and narrow in order to 
economise space and destitute of any provision for the weakness 


A NEW SENSATION. 


121 


of the flesh, and at the further end was the pulpit, a round 
wooden box raised considerably above the ground. Margery 
wondered whether the preachers who occupied it and who gazed 
around from this coign of vantage had any adequate perception 
of the crude ugliness of their surroundings, and, if so, whether 
it damped or stimulated their ardour. 

The chapel was quite full in spite of the witching beauty of 
the world outside ; for the most part the audience seemed to be 
country folk, but there w^as a considerable scattering of people 
evidently of a higher grade, and an alert and expectant air was- 
easy to be detected in the aspect of all. 

“Some favorite preacher is doubtless expected,” thought Mar- 
gery with a touch of cynical amusement, promising herself half 
an hour’s distraction in criticising the oratorical results of im- 
perfect culture and experience of life combined with self-con- 
fidence and effusive pietism 

The hymn, which she discovered was the one before the ser- 
mon, was now finished and the congregation settled firmly into 
their places. There had been an energetic use of pocket-hand- 
kerchiefs, performed with an unmistakable air of finality, as 
well as clearing of the tliroat, which, it may be observed, is often 
a sj^mpathetic sound in a public assembly. 

Margery began to wonder where the minister could have hid- 
den himself, seeing no concealment seemed possible within the 
four corners of the chapel, or whether he had not yet arrived, 
when the problem was solved — almost to the upsetting of her 
gravity — by his suddenly rising and disclosing himself from 
within the deep-seated shelter of the pulpit. It was obvious 
that he could not be a tall man. 

He stood for a moment or two in silence and surveyed his 
audience, not with the underbred official confidence for which 
Margery was prepared, but with a large luminous gaze that 
conveyed the idea both of penetration and of benignity. She 
had an uneasy conviction that his eyes, which were very fine 
eyes, had rested for a moment upon her, knowing that her white 
gown and broad-brimmed hat made her conspicuous. 

He chose for his text the words spoken by St. Paul in his 
speech before Agrippa : “ I was not disobedient to the heavenly 
vision. ” 

He had probably read and expounded the chapter earlier in 
the service, as he seemed to credit his congregation with a 
knowledge of the circumstances. Perhaps there are few things 


122 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


more unsatisfactory than the summary of a sermon, simply 
because the effect produced depends so much upon the indi- 
viduality of the speaker and the quality of his voice ; nor is 
there any form of speech more influential when gifts of heart 
and brain are united to favourable physical conditions. 

All these things seemed present, to Margery’s judgment, in 
the sermon to which she was called uj^on to listen. In the flrst 
place the young minister possessed that quality of sincerity 
and naturalness which capture the heart, and nature had been 
kind enough to endow him with a voice at once clear and 
sonorous, yet capable of the most delicate modulations. 

The leading idea was that, in the experience of every human 
being, that of St Paul was repeated ; that to each man and 
woman, according to their respective sphere and individuality, 
the divine challenge came, and that the issues of life depended 
on the measure of obedience paid to it. He sketched rapidly 
but, it seemed to her, with the hand of a scholar and a master 
the conditions which made up the experience and moulded the 
character of Saul of Tarsus and the completeness of his self- 
renunciation. To this height of sacrifice few were called, but 
the obligation was binding upon every soul. 

“ The true reward of life, ” he said, “ for which alone its race 
should be run is the inner life nobly lived, not the outer one 
richly recompensed. ” 

And then he went into homely detail, showing such intimate 
knowledge of the trials and sorrows of humble lives and with 
the temptations which so desperately beset them, that the eager 
upturned faces of the men and women listening to him softened 
and glowed under his words, and ejaculations of conviction and 
of religious aspiration broke from the lips of many. 

Long before the conclusion of the sermon Margery had rightly 
established the identity of the preacher. He was John Cart- 
Avright, Martin Cartwright’s son, and the bosom friend of Gil- 
bert Yorke, now passed out of the age of hobbledyhoyism under 
which she remembered him, and become an accredited minister 
of his church. 

But what development of heart and brain had taken place 
since then ! His words had sent a wave of spiritual aspiration 
across her own soul and endowed the conditions of her daily life 
with new possibilities, amongst which scarcely seemed that of 
marrying Lord Thimberley. 

She rose and left the chapel before the conclusion of the ser- 


A NEW SENSATION. 


123 


T^ice, slowly retracing her homeward way under a sunset sky of 
pearl and rose and amber— fit ending to a perfect day ! 

She walked slowly, partly because she was subdued and 
thoughtful, partly in the hope that John Cartwright, whose way, 
she thought, must lay the same as hers, would overtake her. 

He did so by the time that she had passed through the village 
and had reached the comparative seclusion of the dull turnpike* 
road which stretched between it and the Chace. 

On hearing footsteps behind her — easily discriminated, for 
they were rapid and firm and unlike the heavy tread of the 
rustic — Margery turned round and spoke to him. 

“May I shake hands with you, Mr. Cartwright?” she said, 
smiling and holding out her ungloved hand with a delightful 
mixture of friendship and interest and with the unconventional 
frankness that was one of her greatest charms. “You did me a 
great service many years ago, and I have never been able to 
thank you for it.” And then she added, looking half -shyly into 
the magnificent dark eyes that were fixed on her face, “I think 
you have done me another this evening.” 

John Cart\vright out of the pulpit was a different man than 
in it. He blushed violently under the young lady’s words and 
seemed at a loss for a reply, finally murmuring indistinctly 
something to the effect, “that he had no recollection of ever 
having been able to serve Miss Denison. ” The embarrassment 
of a man whom you know to be able is a subtle compliment no 
woman is likely to mistake, and Margery found herself better 
pleased with her companion than she had expected. 

“I will recall the circumstance,” she said sweetly, “since our 
road lies in the same direction. But let me explain to you 
why I am alone. I came out for a walk this afternoon with no 
intention of going so far ; then I looked into your chapel, and 
was entrapped, first by the kindness of your people and then by 
your eloquence, Mr. Cartwright. ” 

John smiled, this time with quiet self-possession. 

“I am not an eloquent man. Miss Denison. If you were able 
•to listen to me with patience, I expect it was because there was 
something in what I said that fell in with your mood of mind. 
That makes us very tolerant of imperfection. ” 

“We will put it in that way if you like it best, and there is 
some truth in it. You see if one is living a very meagre, not 
to say sordid, life, one is glad to catch at anything that can 
throw a glamour over it. I can read your face, Mr. Cartwidght : 


lU 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


you are saying to yourself that of course I am speaking from 
the point of view of other people — that a girl who lives in a 
big house and goes up to London for the season can know 
nothing of that kind of thing from her own experience. But 
you are mistaken !” 

“ If, ” he answered, “ I was inclined to doubt whether the ex- 
pression ‘meagre and sordid’ could be rightly used as applying 
to Miss Denison’s life, it was not because of the reasons that she 
mentions. ” 

“ At least, ” said Margery, “ you may take my word for it that 
there was not a poor woman listening to you this evening who 
stood more in need of help and consolation than I. Your anti- 
dotes commend themselves to my imagination, and, with some- 
of us, that is a great help to practice. You see it would make 
things easier if, instead of kicking against the pricks, I could 
regard them as so many divine messengers between God and 
my soul. It would give an unction to fche difficulties and 
troubles of my daily life to persuade myself that, by patient 
endurance of them, I was graduating for the palm of the saint 
or the crown of the martyr. Religion, after all, is only a com- 
promise — a sort of spiritual diplomacy. ” 

“Yes,” he said quietly, “that form of religion has been recog- 
nised from the beginning and judgment pronounced against it : 
‘ Whosoever will save his life shall lose it. ’ The religion that 
lives is not self -regarding and finds its motive-power elsewhere 
than in the contingent crown and palm. ” 

She looked at him steadily. “And what is that motive- 
power?” she asked. 

“ I think it has as many modifications as there are recipients ; 
but the root of the matter is always the same — love to God and 
to man ; not self-love under any of its disguises. ” 

“You discourage your neophytes, Mr. Cai’twright ! Some of 
us are so made that we must make our own miserable egotism 
a stepping-stone to higher things. I tell you frankly that I 
have been applying your sermon to my own case. I am on the 
horns of a dilejnma ; there is a worldly way of extrication, and 
I suppose there is a better one. The question — which cannot 
be decided otherwise than on personal grounds — is, which shall 
I choose?” 

Her manner was gay and animated, but there was an under- 
tone of recklessness and bitterness which was fully detected by 
her companion. He had, in common with the rest of the neigh- 


A NEW SENSATION. 


125 


borhood, some knowledge of the state of matters at the Chace, 
and much more intimate comprehension from what Gilbert Yorke 
had told him. He even leaped to the conclusion that Margery’s 
last words pointed to the alternative of a marriage of interest, the 
-contingency which overshadowed his cousin’s life. If so, his 
duty, as a friend and as a teacher, were at one. 

“ I suppose, ” he said, “ some such temptation as that you speak 
of besets us all at times ; but it narrows itself to a very simple 
point — the choice between good and evil. To decide that it is 
hardly necessary to take divine motives into account, for lower 
one will serve ; the ultimate disappointment we inflict on our- 
selves by wrong-doing as well as the misery upon others. We 
are all so linked together,” he went on, his swarthy cheek 
flushing with a sense of guilty consciousness, “ that we never 
do wrong only at our own cost ; this one and the other suffer 
with us. ” 

Margery smiled. “ You are very wise for so young a man, 
and one — pardon me — whose experience cannot be very wide. 
Hut — shall we walk a little faster? I want to reach home as 
soon as possible ; they will be anxious about me ; and with some 
people, you know, anxiety always takes the form of anger. I 
feel almost as much a culprit to-night as I did years ago when I 
stole out of the house to meet poor Gilbert Yorke in the Sea- 
moor meadows. Ah, that reminds me : the service I have never 
thanked you for was the delivery of my message to him. Take 
my thanks now, please. ” 

John smiled a little wistfully. “ Poor Gilbert ! I hope the 
adventure did not cost you. Miss Denison, as much as it cost 
him.” And then, as she looked enquiry, he related the circum- 
stances of that memorable evening in a way admirably calcu- 
lated to kindle her admiration for the loyalty of her boyish 
lover. 

“ I wonder your conscience allowed j'ou to give him my mes- 
sage,” she remarked. 

“ It did not. I transgressed my conscience. ” 

“Have you repented and made atonement?” she asked, her 
face lighting up with humour. 

“ I have repented, ” he replied very gravely ; “ it is not often 
put into our power to make atonement. ” 

She made a quick movement of deprecation, but did not 
speak ; she was examining her own conscience. 

For a little time they walked on in silence. Then she asked : 


126 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN, 


“Have you heard from your cousin lately?” 

“Do you not know he is ill?” John exclaimed in surprise. 
“He is down with fever at Vienna, or he would have been pres- 
ent at Sir Owen Yorke’s funeral. If I can get leave of absence 
I am going to him to-morrow.” 

Margery stood still ; the news was so sudden it seemed to 
take away her breath. 

“You do not mean his life is in danger?” she demanded. 

“ No, no ; it is a mild case and he is well nursed, only he has 
expressed a wish to* see me — not, be assured, from any appre- 
hension of death, but from the natural desire to have an old 
friend near him. You may, perhaps, find it hard to believe, ” 
he added, with his illuminating smile, “but Gilbert and I are 
as good friends as when we were boys together. No more faith- 
ful heart ever beat. ” 

“ I have no difficulty at all in believing that you make a good 
friend, Mr. Cartwright, ” she answered. 

“If you mean that you find it easier to believe this of me 
than of my cousin. Miss Denison, you make a mistake. I am 
not more trustworthy because I am done and unattractive ; it is 
the clearness of mountain-pools that marks their depth. ” 

Margery smiled, looking at the speaker with an expression 
both arch and kindly. His sincerity was evident and his hu- 
mility touched her. 

John felt uneasy under that lingering regard, conscious of 
sensations that he regarded as shameful ; it was as if a spark of 
fire shot through him from heart to brain, making his face flush 
and his pulses tingle. 

They were now close upon the gates of the Chace, and Mar- 
gery stopped and once more held out her hand. 

“Thank you, do not come any farther. I suppose you are 
going to walk into Copplestone. I hope your mother is well? I 
always presume to admire Mrs. Cartwright so much. I think 
she has such a noble face. ” 

“ She is a noble woman, ” was his answer. It struck Margery 
that he spoke without enthusiasm, but then she was apt to 
gauge a son’s attitude towards his mother by the feeling that 
had bound Gilbert Yorke to the dying Christina. 

John had raised his hat, and was pursuing his way when Mar- 
gery called him back. 

“If you should go to Vienna,” she said, hesitating and blush- 
ing a little, not from any self-consciousness so much as because 


A DOUBTFUL REPRIEVE. 


127 


John’s penetrating eyes were fixed on her face, “will you send 
us news of your cousin? My aunt is very fond of him, and he 
and I have been good comrades for more years than I shall soon 
care to remember. 

“Certainly I will write to Mrs. Sutherland, as Gilbert’s 
amanuensis. ” 

“Will you stay long?” she pursued. “Because if not, do not 
take the trouble to write. It will not be worth while. Come 
and see us at the Chace when you come back, and give us a 
viva voce report, which is so much more satisfactory. ” 

She read refusal on his lips, and anticipated it by a little trick 
of coquetry which entirely imposed on his simplicity. 

“We shall both be so deeply anxious for news of Gilbert,” she 
said softly. “Such news as only an eye-witness can give?” 

“Then I will come.” And this time he turned away with art 
air of resolution that made Margery smile as she walked slowly 
towards the house. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

A DOUBTFUL REPRIEVE. 

Margery entered the house by the open library windows,, 
seeing at a glance that there was no one but Mrs. Sutherland in 
the room. 

That lady was seated in a deep-cushioned chair with a book 
between her fingers, but it was too dusk to read, the evening 
too lovely for lights, and she was dozing gently. 

Margeiy’s entrance aroused her. She sat up with sudden alert- 
ness as if prepared to challenge any imputation of slumber, and 
in order to maintain her position she spoke with unusual 
asperity. 

“At last! Where, in Heaven’s name, have you been? Do 
you know you have been gone for hours? Your father has led 
me a pretty life !” 

Margery glanced at the book in her hand. It was not light 
enough to read the title, but the familiar label of the circulat- 
ing-library could be easily distinguished. 

“ Ah !” she said, putting off her hat and sinking on the 
cushion at her aunt’s feet, “I see — your book has been stupid! 
Forgive me, dear ; I did not mean to stay out so long. I will 


128 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


tell you all about it presently. But first, has dad been tor- 
menting you about Lord Thimberley?” 

“ My dear, there is no more to be said on the subject ; such 
fidelity ought to be rewarded, and now that poor Gilbert 
Yorke’s chances are gone, you have no inducement to refuse. 
I am sorry. I never liked any young man so well as poor Gil- 
bert ; but, as I say, all that is over. It seems providential — I 
mean that this should have happened before it was too late.” 

“What should have happened?” 

“Old Sir Owen’s death and his extraordinary will. Why, he 
has always snubbed that girl shamefully, and now to force the 
young fellow into marrying her ! It is too bad. Had he been 
free to choose where he loved I would not have said a word 
against it, in spite of the title, though it is hard for any woman 
to turn her back on a coronet. But as things have turned out, 
Madge, you must reward the viscount. ” 

“Have you said this to my father?” 

“I told him I would use what influence I had, but that I did 
not think there would be much difficulty in the matter. Of 
course, dear, now that poor Gilbert Yprke is put out of court — 
you know what my feelings have always been on this matter ” 

Margery made an impatient gesture. “Spare me ‘poor Gilbert 
Yorke’ !” she cried passionately^ “Have I not told you again 
and again he was nothing to me but a friend? I would not have 
married him, except out of kindness, perhaps, if he had come 
to me free, with the title-deeds of Rookhurst in his hand. ” 

Mrs. Sutherland drew a breath of relief. 

“Yes, dear, I know you have told me so before, but I never 
believed you until now. Is it pride, Madge, because that spite- 
ful old man has arranged things so cruelly? ^I should be 
grieved, dear ” 

“No, auntie, it is the law of contradiction. We never love 
the men who adore us and whom we loved when we were little 
girls. I am very fond of Gilbert ; very, very sorry for him, but 
I do not want to marry him and I never did.” 

“Dear me, what a comfort!” said Mrs. Sutherland briskly. 
“You have quite cheered me up, and I had got very low sitting 
alone so long after being so grossly insulted by my poor 
brother. But, there, we will say no more about that 1 Brighter 
days are in store for us. Poor Lord Thimberley, how delighted 
he will be ! I never knew of a man more in earnest. You will 
let your father write to him to-morrow?” 


A DOUBTFUL REPRIEVE. 


129 


Margery rose slowly and took up her hat, as if to leave the 
Toom ; then stood looking out into the glimmering twilight. 

A voice was in her ears that seemed to have a singular power 
of influence : “ We never do wrong at our own cost alone. ” She 
recalled, with the exactness of a delicate musical ear, the pre- 
cise inflection of the speaker: “This one and the other suffer 
with us. ” 

She turned round to Mrs. Sutherland. 

“Auntie,” she said, “I have forgotten my bad news. I hap- 
pened to meet the Rev. John Cartwright, poor Gilbert’s cousin, 
you know, and he told me that he was ill of fever at Vienna — 
so ill that he is going to nurse him. ” 

The desired diversion was made. Mrs. Sutherland was full of 
instant concern, and closely examined Margery as to her knowl- 
edge of particulars. “ You know my views, ” she observed ; 
“there never was a more charming young fellow than poor Gil- 
bert Yorke ! It would be a dreadful pity if he were to be cut 
off just at the moment he comes into his inheritance, in spite 
of the hard conditions attached to it. My poor darling, ” laying 
a kind hand on the tall, white-robed figure, “I am afraid you 
will be feeling it dreadfully !” 

“I am,” said Margery in a low tone, and turning away her 
face that glowed with a secret shame, “ I am ! Dear auntie, 
you will make it plain to my father that I must not be pressed 
to any decision while my old friend lies between life and death. 
If he heard of my engagement ” She stopped short. 

Mrs. Sutherland sighed. In a moment Margery’s arms were 
round her neck and her kiss on her faded cheek. 

“ No ! no ! she cried. “ I will tell him myself. It was a cow- 
ardly baseness to ask you to do it.” 

The aunt sighed again and pressed the girl closer. “My 
dear, ” she said, “ I think it will be better to leave it to me ; he 
can’t say quite as hard things to me as to you, or at least not 
the same. After all your denials, Madge, I don’t seem quite 
sure you know your own mind ; but at any rate it would be 
hard, I allow, to send for Lord Thimberley at such a crisis as 
this. So we will agree to wait a few days and see how things 
turn out. I have no doubt he will get better ; still, if he were 
to die, though of course it would be very dreadful, it would 
get over a good many difficulties on his side as well as ours. 
It stands ta reason he must hate that girl. ” 

Margery’s cheeks had blanched. “If he were to die!” 

9 


130 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


But no, that eager, many-sided vitality had too strong a grip 
on life and was not to be snuffed out like a spent candle. 

“ Oh, ” she said with a forced laugh, “ he is not going to die !’^ 
“ No, my dear, of course not ; so ring for light and the supper- 
tray. How I do hate our early dinner on Sunday ! Then you 
shall sing to me, ‘Oh, rest in the Lord!’ or anything else you 
like. You know my views — I always sleep better after a little 
sacred music when one is not able to go to church. ” 


CHAPTER XXH. 

OLD AND NEW LIGHTS. 

“You have made up your mind, John — you refuse to wait till 
after the quarterly meeting?” 

HJ^It was Mrs. Cartwright who spoke, sitting in her accustomed 
chair in the dining-room of Elm Grove, and addressing her son 
almost in the same tone of authority as she had used years 
ago. 

The aspect of the room, however, was a little unfamiliar; 
for the weather was so warm that no fire burned in the grate, 
although it was duly laid for lighting. Mrs. Cartwright never 
allowed any frippery of summer decoration to insult the 
instincts of north -country comfort. Her own chair, too, had 
been placed near the window, which was set open, giving a 
pleasant view of the well-kept grass-plot sloping toward the 
public road and of the trim fiower-beds. 

John, who looked as if he had just come in from a walk and 
had walked far, was standing opposite his mother, hat in hand 
leaning against the window-frame. He did not answer imme- 
diately and she spoke again. 

“You know our hopes — your father’s and mine — that you may 
be recommended and nominated next March to our own circuit, 
and that we may hear your voice in Castle Street Chapel. 
Many things are in your favour, but there have been some 
breaches of discipline, as when you absented yourself two years 
ago from the same mistaken sense of duty as now, and it will 
tell against you seriously if your place is found empty again 
I do no^ think the necessary explanation will help your interests 
much — namely, that you are gone to the gayest capital in 
Europe to visit a friend outside your own social sphere who is 


OLD AND NEW LIGHTS. 


131 


known as one of the most worldly and dissolute members of a 
society where all are seekers after pleasure and deniers of God. ” 

John smiled — a gra ve, quiet smile that provoked the old Adam 
in his mother’s breast. 

“ I am going* ’* he said, “ to visit a sick man, who wants me 
sorely on matters of pressing importance, and who is not dis- 
solute — pardon me, mother — if I am compelled to grant that he 
is worldly. ” 

He was going on, but Mrs. Cartwright interrupted him. 

“What took you, then, to Monte Carlo two years ago? John, 
you cut me to the heart ! Your moral sense is warped by this 
insane weakness, as I always foresaw. ” 

He would have approached to soothe her, but she motioned 
him away. 

“ After all these years of watchfulness and prayer, ” she said, 
in the sharp, cutting tone of suppressed anguish, “you will 
make shipwreck of your faith and become a beacon and a bye- 
word ! Who knows what the travail of my soul has been for 
you? And it will have been in vain. Where can I blame 
myself? Perhaps much might have been better done; but I 
have striven to do my best, and the shortness of human fore- 
sight I cannot help.” 

Then she added, with intense bitterness : 

“ You are a teacher of men ; tell me what a mother ought to- 
do when she sees a child exposed to desperate peril and has no 
power to save him. Does her responsibility cease ? But I waste 
words !” 

The dark eyes seemed to emit sparks of fire as she looked at 
him. 

In the attitude of John Cartwright’s mind toward his mother 
there was doubtless a certain hardness, which, while he 
deplored and condemned, he seemed unable to overcome. 
Perhaps, too, in this relation he lacked perception. The intense 
mother-love, though held in the leash of her iron will, had been 
discerned by young Gilbert Yorke, and had almost drawn his 
own heart towards her ; but then his perceptions were quickened 
by the most tender of personal experiences. 

But John had no such aids to comprehension. The repression 
of his childhood and youth had left their indelible traces on 
mind and character. He could not know that the hand that 
chastened or the voice that condemned were the instruments 
'it a passionate love that bled with secret anguish at the neces- 


132 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


sity, for the mother kept the counsel of her heart too well. It 
is a rare case when a child suffering from the effects of dis- 
cipline comprehends or accepts the motives ; but the fault is not 
with the child. As he grew older intellect as well as feeling 
revolted from the austerity of his training ; 4ie felt that in 
shutting out pleasure from his life, as though pleasure in itself 
were sin, his moral nature had been dwarfed and stunted. 

Then had occurred the brief episode of his cousin’s coming 
amongst them and the consequent rebound of his imprisoned 
faculties. The spell of Gilbert’s individuality conquered both 
heart and mind. For the first time he seemed able to warm 
himself at the fires of life. The ardour of the one thawed the 
ice of the other ; the ready speech unlocked the silent tongue ; 
the efficient sweetness stirred and satisfied the aching yearning 
of a lifetime — a lifetime of seventeen years ! 

It seemed to John Cartwright as if the conscious smile of God 
had been shed upon his path and that his mother had stepped 
in and darkened it again. Matured intelligence, with an ever- 
deepening sense of the needs of others, had served both to help 
him to appreciate the integrity of her motives and to wear off 
the sharp edges of his bereavement ; but even now as he stood 
listening to her passionate protest, indignation rather than sym- 
pathy was the feeling excited. 

“I waste words!” she repeated in a voice that now shook as 
much wdth anger as with sorrow. 

“You are right,” was John’s answer, and his face warmed 
with a light that she knew to her cost only one subject could 
kindle ; “ words are wasted when they are used to defame my 
cousin Gilbert and shake my feeling for him. Even if he were 
all or worse than you think him, my duty would be plain — to 
cleave to him in the hope of saving him. But it is not so. 
Without any profession of goodness he has always set me 
lessons in patience and self-denial that I should find it hard to 
follow ; and, with every temptation to go wrong, he manages to 
escape the evil by force of some indwelling faculty that I do 
not think it profane to believe may be the Spirit of God. ‘We 
know not whence it comes or whither it goeth, ’ he quoted, 
with his illuminating smile. “ Bear with me, mother !” 

“ And was it this indwelling Spirit that led him to the tables 
at Monte Carlo — may God forgive the blasphemy !” 

“You are again under a mistaken impression. What we 
heard was grossly exaggerated ; and I feared, as you feared, 


OLD AND NEW LIGHTS. 


133 


that he was exactly of the temper to fall under the power of 
this vice. But — I have told you all this before — he had really 
staked very little, and at first more from the pressure put upon 
him by others than from any craving of his own. I do not 
deny that he was bitten by the poison and under its horrible 
fascination ; but, that being the case, so much the greater was 
the sacrifice that he never hesitated to make. To turn his back 
upon the most delirious of the devil’s delights in order to pacify 
the conscience of a friend was not likely to reduce his love for 
him.” 

Mrs. Cartwright made a movement of intolerable impatience. 

“We will waive all further discussion ; there is only one point 
I care to carry. Go if you will, since you are too old to be 
coerced, and my influence is as nothing ; but return again in 
time for the quarterly meeting on Friday.” 

John deliberated. The day was Monday and the interval was 
so brief that it would hardly allow of Gilbert’s rallying from 
the excitement of meeting before the pain of separation was 
forced upon him ; on the other hand, filial obedience had been 
the rule of his life, and was accepted by him as an absolute 
duty. His mother spoke again. 

“ Do you suppose, ” she asked, “ that the reputed heir of Sir 
Owen Yorke and the favorite subordinate of a great man, for 
so you tell me he is, will not be well-housed and well-nursed? 
There will be no physical needs to supply, and, taking your 
estimate, he is already a vessel of grace. Therefore the only 
object of your visit is the personal gratification of indulging 
that misplaced affection which lies at the root of your neglect of 
natural duty. Three days may suffice for this self-indulgence. ” 

John looked up with a flash of indignation, but he expressed 
it after his own fashion. “Mother, I wonder if we shall ever 
understand each other ! You said just now I was too old to be 
coerced — that is, I suppose, in the old fashion ; but there is not 
much gained so long as you keep the power of applying the 
lash where I feel myself most sensitive. It shall be as you 
wish. Unless it should be a case of life or death I will be 
home by Friday. ” 

John started for tpwn by the afternoon ‘express from Copple- 
stone and pursued his journey without rest or pause. He 
arrived at Vienna on the*evening of a day when a great social 
function was in progress at the English Embassy. It had never 
come in his way before to get a glimpse of so much magnifi- 


134 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


cence as he now saw around him, as he was conducted to the 
upper chamber occupied by his friend. As he passed through 
halls and corridors where half-opened doors revealed interiors 
that dazzled his eyes, he received a new and extraordinary im- 
pression of all that might be included in the phrase, “the pride 
of life.” 

The crowd of servants he encountered, the delicious odours 
that seemed at once to soothe and stimulate and came he knew 
not whence, the beauty of the women who had passed him on 
stair and landing in such superb apparel that he thought it must 
have outblazoned the typical glory of Solomon, and a nameless 
air of distinction in the men, appealed to faculties never before 
called into exercise. 

At one point he passed the open door of the ball-room, and in- 
voluntarily he stood still. It was empty of guests, for the time 
for dancing was not yet ; but it was flooded with the soft 
radiance of wax candles, and the light was thrown upon walls 
draped at intervals with oriental tissues, and all the spaces 
between, from frieze to dado, filled in with roses, contrasted 
and harmonised through all the tints of their exquisite variety. 
At the upper end amidst a grove of palms and lilies, cunningly 
concealing the musicians’ gallery, a slender fountain threw up 
its tube of perfumed water almost to the height of the roof, 
scattering its sparkling dew around. 

It was a glimpse into an unknown world, a world where the 
“desire of the eye” assumed such enchanting proportions that 
it was transformed and glorified. The wealth lavished upon 
those odourous walls, which the morning’s sunshine would 
blast, staggered the imagination of the young Methodist minis- 
ter. 'Another hour, perhaps, and the room would be filled with 
the men and the women he had seen, and music, exquisitely 
performed, would add the crowning element of seduction to 
what — to express his own views in his own words — was one of 
the most delirious of the devil’s delights. 

W'hat, after all, did he, or his mother, or any member of the 
Connexion at Copplestone, know of the force of worldly tempta- 
tion? Such a world as he now faintly guessed at was not only 
outside their experience, but their conception. It had been out- 
side his. And yet there were men, names fragrant in their 
country’s memory, both dead and living, who kept their con- 
science clear and did their daily duty with this voice of Circe 
at their ears. 


OLD AND NEW LIGHTS. 


135 


Again, the sick man he was going to see, his cousin, Gilbert 
Yorke, was, he supposed, an item in this overwhelming 
account, admitted by right of birth into the innermost circle of 
the social elect, his natural gifts and graces being so much over 
and above. And yet how unspoiled he was ! Just as simple 
and natural and as kind to himself, when he had come a year 
ago to see them all at Elm Lodge as on the first memorable 
day of their meeting. 

John’s heart swelled as he recalled his mother’s words. 

At length the room occupied by Gilbert Yorke was reached 
and the man who had accompanied John knocked at the door. 
In a moment it was opened by a woman clad in the garments 
of a conventual nurse, who closed it again behind her and stood 
confronting them in the passage. A few words in rapid Ger- 
man exchanged with his guide, which exceeded John’s compre- 
hension of the language, and the sight of his own card, put her 
in possession of the situation. She turned to him with a smile 
of engaging kindness and a baffling interrogation in an 
unknown tongue. With inward sinking of heart John replied 
to her in French, explaining that, badly as he spoke the lan- 
guage, he spoke German still worse. 

She answered, also in French, and assured him with an air 
of perfect sincerity that he spoke the language to perfection ; 
that his friend was greatly better, was expecting him “avec 
toute r impatience, ” but that it was too late to see him that 
night ; nor was she to be moved by John’s fallen countenance 
or his gallant attempts to convey entreaty and expostulation 
through the halting medium of a foreign tongue. 

She dismissed him with permission to call the next morning, 
^‘but not before twelve o’clock.” ^ 

John was sorely disappointed, but he was also dead tired. He 
found an hotel, supped, and went to bed, but was awake so 
early the following morning that he found himself with hours 
at his command before it would be time to keep his appoint- 
ment. After breakfast he wandered somewhat vaguely about 
the city, and whiled away a portion of his tedious leisure in 
pursuing the interminable circuit of the magnificent boulevard, 
the Ring Strasse, and trying to interest himself in the impres- 
sive antiquities of the Innere Stadt. Then he diverged towards 
the heart’s core of the capital, threading the narrow and 
irregular streets with a sort of suspended interest, gazing now 
at the lofty tower of the Cathedral of St. Stephen with an 


136 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


instinctive perception of the incongruity — however skilfully 
disguised — between the thirteenth and the nineteenth centuries, 
and standing before the Hofburg with the growing sense that 
in this curious and conglomerate structure, bearing on its face 
the records of a thousand imperial years, the idea of the divine 
right of kings, planted on such prescription, might well take 
root and flourish. 

He was too preoccupied for interiors, nor perhaps did he 
know the priceless treasures which this interior enclosed ; he 
found his way to the spacious, cheery quay of Franz-Joseph, 
paved for some distance along the canal, retraced his steps and 
at length saw that there was barely enough time left to find 
his devious way back to the Land Strasse before noon. The 
clock struck twelve as he mounted the stairs of the Embassy, and 
a few minutes later found him face to face with his cousin. 

Gilbert was dressed in a loose gown and was lying back on 
the cushions of an invalid-chair, with a little table at his elbow 
and a closed porcelain stove in the middle of the room. To 
John’s eyes, albeit not unaccustomed to sickness, his aspect 
was so reduced and wan that it needed an effort to check an ex- 
clamation of dismay. But the keen bright eyes of the sister he 
had seen the day before, who now sat sewing near the window, 
were upon him and he could not fail to understand the gesture 
with which she touched her lip with her finger. 

“M. Vorke a Pair tout a fait ravissant aujourd’hui, ” she said, 
rising and approaching her patient, who had held out a weak 
hand to his friend and tried to speak, but some weakness choked 
his voice. 

John sat down near him and began to talk of his journey and 
the impression the great capital had made on his mind in such 
a cool, quiet fashion that he won golden opinions from Sister 
Feligie, who presently returned to her seat by the window, 
but not before she had administered a cuirful of what looked 
like very weak broth to the invalid. 

Then Gilbert said, with a smile that brought back more of 
the old look to his face : 

“Next to my mother. Jack — would you believe I have fretted 
for her like a child?— I am glad to see you. It is the kindest 
thing you ever did. 

These words satisfied John. Since last night a doubt had 
found its way into his mind whether, through intimate asso- 
ciation with a different class in society, Gilbert might not haver 


OLD AND NEW LIGHTS. 


137 


forgotten how rough he himself was ; how redolent of York- 
shire soil. Therefore the expression of full contentment with 
which his cousin, as he lay back in his chair, looked him over 
from head to foot was doubly welcome and quickened the sense 
of gratitude that formed so strong an element of his friendship. 
No doubt he betrayed the softness of his feelings in the tender 
consideration with which he answered and anticipated Gilbert’s 
questions, for the latter said in his old manner : 

“I think you have grown in grace. Jack! You couldn’t 
possibly be better than you were, but you are sweeter. I sup- 
pose, too, you are in full orders now — how proud your mother 
must be of you ! Some of us get all we want.” He sighed. 

The other did not sigh, because it was not his way to give 
feeling so easy a vent ; but the careless words smote him with a 
pang. 

Then, very soon afterwards, to John’s indignant surprise, 
Sister Feligie stepped forward to cut short the interview and 
dismiss him, and this before a word had been spoken on the 
subject uppermost in the minds of both — the kindred themes of 
Margery Denison and Sir Owen’s will. 

The strength of his feeling left him speechless, but Gilbert 
begged for a little further indulgence. 

“ We will not talk, dear sister, but let him sit here an hour 
longer ! I grow stronger by looking at him — I smell the breath 
of the moors.” 

“Que voulez-voute?” she answered, shaking her head and 
addressing John with her fingers on Gilbert’s wrist. “ Je ne puis, 
qu’y faire 1 Allons, demain viendra. ” And with this poor en- 
couragement John was constrained to take his reluctant leave. 

This was not for what he had undertaken a long journey ; his 
notion had been to have planted himself by his cousin’s bed or 
chair and spent all the hours of the day, not to say the night, in 
close attendance. He passed the rest of the day in a religious 
observance of the duties of a flying tourist, and he wrote to his 
mother ; but his heart was not in his work and he counted the 
hours lost till he again found himself admitted to Gilbert’s room. 

Sister Feligie was full of conversation ; she had to tell him 
how fortunate it was that he had not stayed longer yesterday,, 
as, soon after he was gone, his Excellency himself had called 
in to see Monsieur, and the doctors in consultation had con- 
gratulated her that her patient had borne the strain so well. 

“They placed me in good hands,” said Gilbert, looking at 


138 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


her gratefully. “In typhoid, Jack, it is not the doctor, but the 
nurse, who saves.” 

She looked enquiry and he repeated in German what he had 
said, with an added touch of kindliness. Sister Feligie blushed 
and smiled, and, perhaps in virtue of the recognition, consented 
on this occasion to leave the young men alone together, explain- 
ing that she would be within call in the adjoining room. 

With a sigh of satisfaction John drew his chair close to Gil- 
bert’s, the little table standing between them on which had 
been placed a bundle of letters and a cup of the same decoction 
he had seen administered yesterday. 

“You look better to-day,” he said wistfully, and laying his 
hand on the feeble fingers that were idly pulling at the tape 
that bound the letters together ; “ but are you sure, old fellow, 
that they give you enough to eat?” 

“They tell me so and my faith is implicit. Strong meat is 
not for babes and you will soon see, I’m afraid, that there’s not 
much manhood left in me. ” His lips twitched a little, and the 
eyes that looked into John’s had a suspicious brightness. John 
cast his own steadily on the fioor and set his lips firm. “How 
long can you stay, Jack?” continued Gilbert. ^ “A week? a 
fortnight? I am hardly fit for this business to-day ” (he touched 
the letters again) . 

Perhaps in the whole course of his life John Cartwright had 
never known a feeling of sharper pain or more bitter resent- 
ment. The promise extorted from him by his mother would 
make of this his farewell visit. He was at a loss how to 
answer, but Gilbert came to his relief. 

“I see — I was unreasonable — of course you have your own 
work to do.” Then looking again into his friend’s face he 
u,sked, almost with a cry : “Jack, must you go to-day?” 

“ Yes, ” returned the other with a sort of stricken doggedness, 
“ I have promised. I must go home to-day. ” 

Then silence fell between them. Gilbert lay back with closed 
eyes looking very white and still, and John sat and watched 
him. Presently he said in an altered voice : “ My promise was 
not unconditional. I shall not go to-day. Drink a drop of 
this stuff, Gilbert. ” 

Gilbert roused and obeyed with a faint smile. “Give me a 
few minutes’ grace ; I told you how it would be. Typhoid, 
Jack, more than anything else, I believe, [makes one realise 
your mother’s dictum, that 'we are but dust and ashes. ’” 


OLD AND NEW LIGHTS. 


139 


John rose up sharply. “ Let us put these papers away, ” he 
said. “Is there a place into which I can thi’ow them? We will 
have nothing to say to them to-day. I shall be here the same 
time to-morrow; indeed, for that matter, I shall stay over 
Sunday. ” 

Gilbert put out his hand to restrain the action. 

“That won’t do now. I shall never rest again till I know 
the truth. You must humour me, Jack ; opposition will be 
worse than indulgence.” He paused, then went on. “My poor 
grandfather ! I got the news of his illness and death in the 
same day ; it was at the beginning of my illness. The doctors 
would not let me move, and since then I have been worse and 
know nothing.” 

“ Nothing !” repeated Jack apprehensively. 

“Ah! then the news is bad. I was afraid of it and had not 
pluck enough to open these letters, though they were given me 
half an hour before you came in. You know what I am afraid 
of — not for my own sake but for hers, which means for the sake 
of her people — that he has cheated my hopes. ” 

“ I know — I quite understand. ” 

Gilbert’s face flushed and quickened. “ It would be a lie to 
say I did not wish him to disinherit my cousin Edward. I did 
wish it and have leaned upon hints and promises. You will un- 
derstand, Jack, that the poor fellow has no power to spend or 

enjoy more than he has got — nor half so much — and that I ” 

He stopped. 

“Gilbert,” said John sternly, “I will not hear another word. 
I shall call your nurse. I will go — if you like, to return later. ” 

He was crossing the room, but his cousin’s weak voice had 
power to stop him. 

“That would be cruel kindness. Jack — I should have a relapse 
for certain ! I wanted to defend myself from being a cad, but 
let that go. You know it all as well as I do. I have loved her 
since, I was sixteen. I have not a hope outside of her. For her 
sweet sake I have kept my life pure as her own, and — for that 
same sweet sake, I wish to supplant my cousin !” 

John looked straight before him, holding his peace. 

Gilbert seized his hand, if so feeble a grip may deserve the 
word, “You know something, I see — the local gossip! Tell me. 
Jack — I can bear it better from you. ” 

John Cartwright’s integrity had never been put to a more 
severe test. The sight of the thin, flushed face, the eagerness 


140 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


of the eyes, in which forboding already seemed to touch despair, 
cut him to the quick. He was also terribly afraid of the conse- 
quences of this agitation, and yet hesitation would be almost 
as dangerous as the truth. 

It was not possible for him to tell a lie (though he almost 
wished it were) , but to temporize was imperative. 

“Of course, ” he said, as quietly as his leaping pulses would 
let him , “ of course some rumours have reached us, but they are 
so contradictory we do not know what to believe. One thing, ” 
he added, feeling himself to be a traitor as he spoke, “ is pretty 
generally accepted as true — that Mr. Edward Yorke is not your 
grandfather’s heir.” 

“You know more — for God’s sake do not kill me with this 
cruel kindness !” 

“I do not know more. In telling you this, I tell you more 
than I know.” 

Gilbert looked at him steadily, but the other bore the investi- 
gation without flinching. “Then. we will both inform ourselves. 
Mr.Percival’s letter is here — read it to me. Jack.” John opened 
his lips to protest, but he saw all protest was vain. 

“If you refuse to read it, I shall read it for myself, and my 
head is scarcely equal to that. I see there is something wrong.. 
It may be bad for me to know the truth, but it is better than 
suspense. Don’t be afraid — I shall bear it like a man.” 

There seemed no alternative. Gilbert pulled himself together,, 
sipped his meagre restorative and encouraged him with a smile. 
“ I imagine the worst is always past when the victim has settled 
his head on the block, ” he said. 

John broke the seal of the lawyer’s letter, and began to read r 

After a few formal condolences on Gilbert’s illness, and the 
information that Sir Owen Yorke’ s will had been made public 
immediately after the funeral according to the testators’ in- 
structions, Mr. Percival took the trouble to enumerate the names 
of those present at the double ceremony, amongst them being 
those of Mrs. Yorke and her daughter. He then gave a sum- 
mary of said will, laying great stress on the extent and value 
of the inheritance to which Gilbert succeeded, the estates of 
Rookhurst, Yorkshire, and of Holy wells, Norfolk, the stocks 
and shares, soundly invested, the plate, pictures, and furniture 
of the respective mansions — everything, in fact, by which it was- 
in the power of his late client to mark his affection for his 
grandson, on . the sole condition that he should marry his 


OLD AND NEW LIGHTS. 


141 


cousin, Philipa Yorke, within a year and a half of the testator’s 
decease. The effort which it cost John Cartwright to pronounce 
these last words was only to be equalled by the desperate cour- 
age with which Gilbert Yorke braced himself to hear them. 

“Thank you, old fellow,” he said, as John dropped the paper 
and raised his eyes slowly to look at the effect of his work ; “ it 
is not so bad as I feared. We shall get over that !” 

John still gazed at him, but was not deceived. The rush of 
his feelings — of indignation and wrath, of love and closest sym- 
pathy — was so violent as to break down his judgment and prompt 
him to do a very foolish thing. True, he hesitated a few mo- 
ments while prudence whispered in his ear, and during this 
brief interval he moved away from the table and stood by the 
window which looked down, as from an eyrie, on the court-yard 
of the house. Carriages were dashing in and out, crowds of 
people coming and going, all eagerly intent on the pleasure or 
business of life ; and this upper chamber, where the common 
tragedy of blighted hopes was being enacted, seemed curiously 
aloof from it all. 

Why should he hold back the drop of consolation that might 
assuage the anguish of his friend? He spoke without turning 
round. 

“I think and hope that is not impossible,” he said, answering 
Gilbert’s last words. “A man like me has of course little 
knowledge of these things, but I saw Miss Denison last Sunday. 
I will tell you all about it presently, and I cannot help thinking 
that — that she cares for you. In that case wealth is not eveiy- 
tliing. You will be able to persuade her. ” 

“Ah ! Don’t torment me. Jack ! Tell me all at once.” 

And John, still keeping his post at the window, told him his 
tale. He had the genius of a Boswell, and not a word or gesture 
of his subject went unchronicled. The latent flame of his own 
passion played round all Margery’s manifestations and glorifled 
them ; but the use he made of it was to show her more clearly 
to his friend, and to strengthen his failing heart by deductions 
religiously believed in by himself. Gilbert hung upon his 
words, his sanguine nature embracing the possibilities almost as 
assurance. He had covered his face with his hands to hide its 
workings. “ Bless you. Jack, ” he said after a long pause had 
fallen between them, “ you have given me new life 1 I shall 
get strong by leaps and bounds. If she really cares for me — but 
I dare not dwell on the thought ! It has always been the dream 


142 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


of my life to work for her. I would ask for nothing better than 
to earn our living — say, in the orchestra here, and pour the 
weekly wages in her lap. Oh, how happy we might be !” 

“I don’t think that would do,” said John grimly. 

“Did I not say it was a dream? I am not such a fool as to 
expect a girl like her to accept such a position. But I have 
good prospects of advancement otherwise, and if it were neces- 
sary I would never speak to my fiddle again, but turn what 
wits I have to the one object of wriggling myself higher in 
the service. Sir Hugh Dalrymple is very kind to me. ” 

John looked at him. “I don’t know how any woman could 
resist you. ” 

“ Ah ! but that is your mistake. I am not the sort that wo- 
men go mad about or give up all for ! I always feel myself a poor 
thing with no depths to sound, nor any of those twists and re- 
serves of character which provoke curiosity, wearing my heart 
on my sleeve. For that matter. Jack, you are far more inter- 
esting than I. I can fancy if you were in society ” 

“ But I am not, ” interrupted his cousin sharply, and at the 
same moment sister Feli^ie entered the room with her watch 
in her hand and her finger pointing to the dial. 

John rose immediately to take his leave, “ till to-morrow, ” he 
said, holding Gilbert’s hand, but Gilbert shook his head. 

“ I will see you no more till we meet at Eookhurst. Do you 
wish your mother to hate me more than she does? No, Jack, 
you have done me all the good you can. I should not sleep to- 
night if I did not know that you were steaming away to home 
and duty. I shall follow sooner than you think.” 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

“oh, wretched man that I am!” 

The conditions of Sir Owen’s will threw Mrs. Yorke into a 
state of mental and moral confusion. 

The will was an act of atrocious injustice in the interests of 
a young man whom she ardently disliked on the most legiti- 
mate grounds for a mother ; but there was an equivalent, 
doubtless, in the possibility that the wrong done to the son 
might be redressed to the daughter. The critical question was, 
Would it be thus redressed? Of her daughter’s interest in the 


“ OH, WRETCHED MAN THAT I AM ! ” 145 

new heir she had not a doubt ; it had been one of her many 
provocations, and indeed she had sometimes been disposed ta 
attribute the increasing listlessness of Philipa’s manner and the 
low tone of her health to a secret pining after her cousin, who 
had i.lways contrived to make himself as agreeable to the sister 
as odious to the brother on the few occasions when they had 
met. 

That Gilbert did not return Philipa’s unconscious devotion, 
Mrs. Yorke felt perfectly sure, but feeling was of small account 
in the balance of a splendid inheritance. Still, one point wa& 
to be allowed for — the young man was distinctly crotchety. 

There was no minute discussion of the terms of the old grand- 
father’s will until after their return home from Rookhurst. The 
disinherited heir, as both himself and his mother considered 
him to be, had been discreetly forewarned by letter so that the 
first fury of his disappointment might be spent, but if such 
had been the case the remainder portion was a very ugly and 
formidable residuum. He insisted upon the presence of his sis- 
ter, who had wished to excuse herself, before he would “ppen 
his mind, ” as he called it on the subject. 

“Look here, old lady,” he said, addressing his mother in the 
offensive phraseology he sometimes adopted, “you wouldn’t, 
mind, would you, spending your precious legacy in trying to 
upset this blasted will? How was it the damned thief wasn’t 
there himself?” 

Philipa sat in the background out of the range of the speaker’s 
sight ; there was something in this combination of malignity 
and physical helplessness that always made her feel cold and 
frightened. 

Mrs. Yorke, who herself had a half-terror of her unhappy son, 
explained that Gilbert Yorke was ill at Vienna of typhoid fever. 

“Typhoid!” cried Edward, almost with a shriek. “People 
die of typhoid, most times, don’t they? Though I guess no such 
luck will be ours. Would to God I could stand by his bedside 
and give him his next dose ! I always hated him ; I hate him 
now like — hell !” 

Philipn rose from her chair, white and trembling, but resolute. 
“I won’t stay in the room to hear such language,” she said. 
“ It is horrible 1 He has always been good to you. Mother, why 
do you allow it?” 

“ Oh, ho !” sneered her brother, “ is that the game — on his side 
instead of ours — grabbing at the fortune that belongs to me and 


144 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


shall never be either yours or his if I can hinder? Cripple as I 
^m, it shall go hard if I don’t spoil your little game, miss !” 

“ Edward, ” said his mother sternly, “ you forget yourself ! A 
gentleman should try and behave with decency even such a provo- 
cation as yours. Your sister has had no hand in this miserable 
business, and, if you were generous, you would be glad there is 
a chance of her getting what you lose.” 

The young man stretched himself on his couch and flung his 
arms above his head with an ostentatious yawn. His violence 
of temper always came in spurts, but the mood it left behind 
was hardly to be preferred. 

“Don’t preach, ” he said; “it’s too late in the day. Gilbert 
Yorke gets my fortune if he marries Phil — therefore he doesn’t 
marry her. Unless he would rather let go the fortune than take 
her, in which case it might suit my book to help Phil. ” 

He looked toward her with a malicious grin. 

“Mother!” cried the girl appealingly. 

“My dear,” replied Mrs. Yorke soothingly, for she ^vas touched 
and almost alarmed at the look of anguish on Philipa’s face, “is 
it worth while to take any notice of what Ted says when he is 
out of temper? There is every excuse for him this time. Run 
out into the garden, child, and forget all about it. ” 

Philipa was prompt to obey, and it must be owned that her 
mother did not linger long behind her. 

“ I will send Fletcher to you, dear, ” she said to her son as she 
retreated. 

He gnashed his teeth as the door closed upon her, half in rage, 
but, it must be owned, half in pain and sorrow too. “What a 
helpless log I am 1” was the thought of his mind. “ Others can 
get away from me, but, hang it, I can’t get away from myself! 
I should like to cut and run after that girl and tease her till 
she cries, wretched little traitor as she is ! But she has the 
whip-hand of me !” And then, for his faculties were at full 
stretch with excitement, the notion took possession of him that 
things would have been very different if he had been, as he 
ought. Sir Owen’s heir. Now he was nothing but his mother’s 
dependent and might be slighted with impunity ; then with riches 
and influence at command his word would have been law to his 
household. 

Amongst the better feelings of his nature was a sort of dog- 
like attachment to the family-seat at Rookhurst ; when staying 
there as a guest, as had hapi)ened frequently during the last 


JOHN CARTWRIGHT GOES TO THE CHACE. 145 


four years, and stretched on his couch in the pleasant oriel room 
over the gateway, he had dreamed one of liis few dreams. He 
had planned the alterations he would make, and even advanced 
so far as designing a sort of invalid-carriage, in which he might 
be able to go over the estate with his steward. 

And now all that was over. Another would reign there in 
his stead, leaving him only the mockery of an empty title, and 
that other was the possessor in double measure of every good 
gift that had been denied himself, and therefore he was justi- 
fied in detesting him. 

“Always good to me,” he said to himself, repeating his sister’s 
words ; “ so much the worse for his impudence ! He knew that 
he had got the length of the old fool’s foot and could afford to 
be civil. It drives me wild to think that he will be able to take 
his full fling in the world while I lie rotting here ! What else 
is left me but to plot and plan how best I can serve him out?— 
with or without Phil. ” 

The man was malignant and contemptible, but he was pro- 
foundly to be pitied. Unhappily the inability to enjoy does not 
destroy the desire for enjoyment ; and there were times, as now, 
when, as it were, the phantasmagoria of the world’s delights 
passed before his eyes and mocked his helplessness till he could 
have shrieked aloud with pain and rage. 

Let him that is without sin amongst us cast the first stone. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

JOHN CARTWRIGHT GOES TO THE CHACE. 

The day following John Cartwright’s return from Vienna, the 
quarterly meeting, which was. regarded as so important a trans- 
action, was duly held. 

There was much that was trying to flesh and blood in the 
ordeal, all the more because an almost morbid shyness — seldom 
shaken off except in the pulpit or where some equally powerful 
influence was at work — as well as an acute sensibility, were 
hidden under the awkwardness and reserve of his usual manner. 
Added to this he knew the extreme anxiety of his mother as to 
the issue, believing (but in this he did her an injustice) that 
she would gauge his intellectual and spiritual position accord- 
ing to the judgment of the influential members of the Con- 
nexion. 


10 


146 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


The decision, however, was favorable to Mrs. Cartwright’s 
hopes. The testimony borne to her son’s scholarship, his devo- 
tion to duty as shown in his work amongst the poor and in the 
schools, and his acceptance as local preacher, was so unanimous 
that permission was given, according to the known wishes of 
the honored superintendent of Castle Street Chapel and other 
influential members of the district, that John Cartwright should 
be appointed as assistant minister, and be allowed the privilege, 
as the only child of his parents, of continuing to live under his 
father’s roof. 

Some of the ministers who came from a distance and a few 
personal friends were invited to dine, after the meeting, at Mar- 
tin Cartwright’s house, whose efficient hospitality had a wide 
reputation. 

When John came downstairs a few minutes before the arrival 
of the guests he found that his mother was giving a few last 
touches to the dinner-table, and he followed her into the room. 

The table was glittering with flne glass and silver, and she 
was placing little bouquets of roses and ferns within the old- 
fashioned flnger-glasses. Decanters full of gold and crimson 
wine shed their glowing colors on the flne white damask. The 
garden-window stood a little open, for the weather was very 
sultry, and the dinner-hour was six o’clock. It would be eaten 
in the full light of the summer- day. 

Her face softened and warmed, as, looking up at the opening 
door, she recognized her son. John saw and understood, and, 
the look in her eyes encouraging him, he w^ent up to her — a 
little tentatively, it must be owned — and kissed her. 

“Mother,” he said, “do you know how beautiful you are?” 

She smiled and blushed a little. “ I believe I was once, ” she 
answered ; “ and I am glad my so:; thinks me so still, because I 
know he sets so great a store by beauty. It is a snare, John.” 

The words chilled him. He seldom contested a point with 
his mother, which was perhaps a mistake ; but the force of habit 
is well nigh irresistible, and repression had been the habit of 
his life. It had been in his mind to tell her all about his recent 
visit, and how things which were the talk of the neighborhood 
really affected Gilbert, but the inclination had faded away. 

Presently his genial father bustled in to take stock of the re- 
serve of wine, in his character as butler of the establishment, 
and his face brightened as his eyes fell on mother and son. 

“ Eh, love, ” he said tenderly ; “ but this is a proud day for both 


JOHN CAHTWRIGHT GOES TO THE CHACE. 147 


of US ! Thy heart must have burned within you at all the fine 
things said of John ; and he deserved them, too, every word of 
them ! Bless the lad, he has never cost us an hour’s sorrow in 
his life !” 

Instinctively John’s eyes sought his mother’s, and met hers 
fixed upon him with a look of such passionate yearning that he 
was startled by its intensity. 

“My heart did burn within me,” she said softly, “but I think, 
Martin, that the happiness of to-day has been helped forward 
by some sad and anxious hours. We never buy our blessedness 
cheap, but win by what we lose. ” 

There was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Cartwright moved 
forward to receive her friends, leaving her son with an ache at 
his heart. He had understood his mother to mean that he had 
gained spiritually from what he felt to have been the abiding 
loss of his life — the breaking off of household intercourse with 
his cousin. He resented the implication with all the strength 
of his ardent feeling for Gilbert, and none the less strongly be- 
cause the fire of his generous indignation only burned inwardly. 
He had ceased to try and show Gilbert to his mother as he was 
or as he thought he was. 

Perhaps it was because of the discomfort caused by this sense 
of the injustice done to Gilbert Yorke that John Cartwright 
betook himself the next day to the Chace, and asked for Mrs. 
Sutherland. 

The servant, who was scarcely so neat and deft as one of his 
mother’s handmaidens, seemed at a loss for an answer, looking, 
John thought, not only perplexed, but troubled, so that he, felt 
it incumbent upon him to take himself away. It was possible, 
in spite of Margery’s graciousness, that the lady might not care 
to count him amongst the people she received ; she was probably 
cf the same temper as her brother, whose pride and exclusive- 
ness, which always mounted higher in proportion to the descent 
of his fortunes, were a matter of public repute. 

He had just put his card into the maid’s hand, and was turn- 
ing to the door, when he heard footsteps running down the 
broad shallow staircase, and Margery’s voice in his ears. 

“ Please stop, Mr. Cartwright, ” she said ; “ there has been some 
mistake ! We want to see you very much. ” 

She dismissed the girl with a nod, opened the door of the 
library, which gave upon the hall, and motioned John to follow 
her. It was not till they were both within the room and she 


148 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


had closed the door, that she turned fully round to him and 
held out her hand. 

“Welcome home,” she said, “from the finest capital in 
Europe ! How abject must Copplestone appear in your eyes I 
And how did you leave — Gilbert Yorke?” 

She spoke with a vivacity so forced that John, who had not 
till then had the oppoitunity of seeing her face, looked up in 
surprise. 

She was standing before him in a gown of dark heliotrope silk 
that fell in straight folds from throat to feet, and fiowed on the 
fioor behind. To our young Methodist preacher it seemed a robe 
of splendor, though the wearer herself would probably have 
characterised it as “my old tea-gown,” but it harmonised well 
with the tints of her complexion and the fine coloring of her 
eyes and hair. A bunch of yellow roses, from the same tree as 
those he had last seen her wear, were fastened below the lace at 
her throat, and seemed to enclose her in a delicate perfume. 
John, who was himself conscious of a secret loss of self-control, 
having gazed for one brief moment, dropped his eyes, and Mar- 
gery saw— for she was observing him closely, not to say de- 
fiantly — that the colour came into his face. The vision was 
dazzling, and he shrank sensitively from the full blast of the 
recognized temptation, but there was more than that : Miss 
Denison’s beautiful eyes were red with crying. 

“Ah!” said Margery raising her head and drawing up the 
figure which slightly overtopped John’s, with an air in which 
pride and pathos and a sort of impatient scorn of herself were 
all mingled, “I see you detect my weakness! It is quite true — 
I have been crying like a child or a fool, too feeble to bear the 
brunt of my own purpose, and I owe my present trouble to you. ” 

“To me?” The tone expressed surprise and incredulity so 
sharply that Margery laughed, but John could perceive that the 
laughter was perilously near to tears. Perhaps she feared his 
penetration, for she turned away and began to walk slowly up 
and down the long room. She had taken up a large black fan 
from a table and fanned herself as she walked, the loose sleeve 
of her gown falling back and showing the beauty of her arm and 
the exquisite turn of the wrist. John’s eyes followed her with 
fascinated intentness. His mother was right when she accused 
him of being too much addicted to the worship of beauty ; he 
would have been its slave had not duty long had the upper 
hand of instinct. But the present was a strong temptation. 


JOHN CARTWRIGHT GOES TO THE CHACE. 149 


Beauty, such as Margery Denison possessed, had been held as 
paramount in circles where beautiful worrien were almost as 
plentiful as primroses in Spring ; to this shy and solitary ob- 
server, who had unconsciously enshrined her girlish loveliness 
in his heart as his ideal of what was adorable in the sex, her 
beauty, such as it now appeared, produced a depth of fine sen- 
sation that would have made the man of the world laugh, and 
perhaps would scarcely have been understood even by Gilbert 
Yorke himself. 

“Yes,” she said at last, breaking the silence, and speaking 
slowly and softly with half- closed eyes, as if to concentrate her 
attention, or possibly from weariness, “ I am in trouble to day 
more even than usual, for trouble is my daily portion, and I 
repeat, Mr. Cartwright, that I owe it to you. ” 

“Will you be pleased to explain?” he asked. 

She did not answer at once, but continued her slow rhythmical 
motion through the room, but when she had again reached tlie 
spot where he was standing she paused before him and said : 

“ When I say that I owe my present trouble to you, Mr. Cart- 
wright, I pay you a compliment that is always welcome to the 
professional teachers of men. The Sunday before last, I heard 
you preach a very stimulating sermon to tlie toilers and moilers 
amidst the worries of life ; but it had less effect upon me than 
certain words spoken by you on our homeward way. You see 
I am talking to you quite freely, as if we were friends of old 
standing, and perhaps that strikes you as strange, but I know 
you better than you tliink. I am quick to understand people, 
and sermons — honest sermons, I mean — are always a revelation ; 
and then, again, every one who knows your cousin knows 
you. ” 

She stopped as if to give him the opporutnity of reply, but he 
was in no hurry to avail himself of it. Perhaps few things 
could have distressed him more than to be made the subject of 
her own conversation, for lie had all the morbid modesty of the 
man who conscientiously undervalues himself, and it seemed to 
him an absolute waste of time that when he was on the tenter- 
hooks of anxiety on her own behalf and had come simply to tell 
her about his friend, she chose to talk about himself. 

“If,” he said, “any words spoken by me have brought trouble 

upon you ” Then he broke off with the dark flush on his 

cheek and the glow in his eyes which marked his moods of sup- 
pressed feeling. “Forgive me. Miss Denison, to put the idea 


150 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


into words serves to show its presumptuous absurdity only — 
however caused, can I be of any — the humblest — use?” 

“Yes,” was her answer; “if you are able to give me the 
strength which, so far as I know, no one human creature every 
yet gave to another. I am one of those people, Mr. Cartwright, 
who can take a leap into the air sometimes, but have no power 
of patient continuance in well-doing. Worse, if I ever do right, 
I am sure to be sorry for it afterwards, and to make every one 
about me miserable on the strength of it. I think it would be 
better if I went my natural way and had more courage to go 
wrong. ” 

Her face lighted up with a smile of pathetic humor. 

“ I see you do not follow me ; you look delightfully perplexed. ” 

“ I am perplexed, but not because I do not follow you ; for, if 
I may speak of myself, over and over again I have set my wull 
in advance of my inclinations, and suffered, and no doubt made 
others suffer too, in trying to reconcile them ” 

Again he stopped short, for her eyes dwelt upon his face with 
a smiling interest that disturbed as much as it surprised him. 
She was so absolutely at her ease, that all her powers of observa- 
tion were at her command and effectually obscured his. He be- 
gan to wish that he had never come, and would have gone away 
but that he had not yet touched on the matter that brought him. 

Margery, who had been standing hitherto, now sat down in a 
low chair and signified to her guest to take a seat also. Then 
she resumed speech in her clear, vibrating tones, without a 
touch of hesitation. 

“ When I went into the Stone Edge Chapel that evening, I had 
almost made up my mind to a course of conduct that w^as neither 
true nor honorable, but which had a great many advantages to 
recommend it. Now I have remade it, greatly in consequence 
of some things you said or suggested. My father — I only sum- 
moned courage to tell him just now — is bitterly disappointed, 
and my poor aunt so upset that — she can receive no visitors. 
When I heard your name, I could not resist speaking to you. I 
am like a child who has braced itself to the point of swallowing 
a nauseous draught — T want to be commended ; I want to be 
encouraged — and — consoled. ” 

Her eyes sparkled with self- irony, but he could see’ the pain 
and struggle behind them. 

“ I am so happy as to be able to do that, ” he said with an eager- 
ness that was great enough to overcome his embarrassment. 


JOHN CARTWRIGHT GOES TO THE CHACE. 151 


And then, disregarding the gesture by which she tried to check 
his words and attributed by him to a woman’s sweet shame- 
facedness, he poured forth the story of his recent visit to Gilbert 
Yorke, presenting his friend with such happy and tender 
touches that, in spite of herself, Margery’s reluctance to listen 
was overcome. 

As John talked, his eyes from time to time rested on his com- 
panion, and he seemed to grasp with added force the idea of 
the perfect fitness which subsisted between his brilliant friend 
and this beautiful girl, who sat opposite to him, swaying her 
form with a stately, measured motion and with reserves of love 
and tenderness in the animated gaze fixed on his face. Mar- 
gery, too, in spite of his careful reticence could not fail to be 
aware of the impression on his mind ; and while her pride 
prompted her to keep her own counsel with this comparative 
stranger, her honesty warned her to undeceive him, if only that 
he might help to undeceive the other. 

“I should be sorry to think,” she said gravely, “that your 
cousin felt any serious reluctance to conform to the terms of his 
grandfather’s will. Sir Edward Yorke has cause to complain of 
injustice ; but he is so disagreeable, I believe, that very little 
sympathy will be felt for him. His sister, on the other hand, 
is sweet and good, and might well be the choice of any man, 
even if she did not bring Rookhurst and Holywells in her hand. ” 

“No doubt that is true — for any man wdio has the power of 
choice left.” 

John spoke in the lowest and most deprecating of tones ; his 
manner would have been thoroughly appropriate to any man 
pleading his own cause. 

Margery was conscious of a sudden and vexatious embarrass- 
ment, which made their proximity irksome. She rose from her 
chair and went to the window, standing in anxious debate with 
her pride and her conscience, and looking intently meanwhile 
at the chipped margin of the fish-pond and the blasted willow. 

“You put me in a very awkward position,” she said at last, 
speaking with her back toward him. “I cannot pretend to mis- 
understand your meaning — perhaps your object, Mr. Cartwright 
— and yet it is no subject for discussion with a third person.” 

“I beseech you,” he interrupted, “to put no constraint upon 
yourself. My only motive was to let you know that he w'as 
better, and — I don’t understand where I find the courage to be 
so bold — that circumstances known to yourself and to me, as his 


152 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


brother and friend, make obedience to the conditions of his 
grandfather’s will impossible.” 

He rose and took up his hat. 

“ No, do not go until I have made you understand that what 
your friend wants — and you for his sake — he cannot have. ” 

She had spoken so far turned away from him as before, but 
now she suddenly changed her position and faced him. 

“Who can tell him this more kindly than you?” she asked, 
looking at him steadfastly, with head erect and a certain wist- 
fulness of expression that touched John with a deep sense of 
pathos. “Persuade him of it, Mr. Cartwright, and — spare me.” 

“ 1 cannot do that, Miss Denison, and no man worthy of the 
name would take his dismissal by proxy.” 

“Do you blame me?” she asked. “Am I to be supposed to 
have done a good action in refusing a rich man because I do not 
love him, and a base one in refusing a poor man on the same 
grounds? Is your conscience to be hoodwinked by friendship to 
that extent?” 

“My cousin is not a. poor man, ” was John’s answer. “He has 
every quality for distinction in his profession and a provision 
under Sir Owen’s will. He is sure to succeed if he may not be 
said to have done so already, and all that is as nothing in com- 
parison with a heart and temper that few men can resist, and 
no woman surely. ” 

“Who made you,” asked Margery coldly, “a judge and a 
divider between us? A man, especially a recluse and a cleric, 
has no more power of knowing what is acceptable to us in your 
own sex than of dictating the fashion of our gowns. Gilbert 
Yorke is all that you say, and indeed I have loved him from 
the first time I saw him, when he was holding his mother’s 
head on his shoulder and stroking her cheek untiringly in one 
of her paroxysms of neuralgia. Even then, Mr. Cartwright, she 
was a lovely woman, and he the sweetest lad my eyes ever 
beheld, before or since. ” 

“ He is just as kind and sweet now, and seems to pass through 
the temptations of the world like the Hebrew children through 
the fire — unharmed and unsmirched.” 

John’s eyes were very soft and tender. Margery’s rested upon 
him for a moment, and then an ironical smile touched her lips. 

“ David can scarcely be so innocent as his Jonathan ! Had 
you a particle of worldly cunning, Mr. Cartwright, or some 
glimmering perception of a woman’s perversity, you would 


153 


“the lines fallen in pleasant places,” 

inow that a little hearty abuse of your friend would serve your 
purpose better.” 

She held out her hand as if to dismiss him, adding with a 
Teturn of the vivacity and spirit which never long deserted her ; 

“I think I have mastered your views on the subject under dis- 
cussion. I am to yield either to the pressure put upon me by 
my own friends, or by yours, quite irrespective of my personal 
feelings ; and in that case there can be no doubt that a father’s 
wishes are the most sacred and should cany the day. ” 

“No,” returned John simply ; “I did not think that. I would 
not wish even Gilbert to be happy, nor your father, nor any 
other man, at the expense of your integrity. 

“ Would it not have been kinder and more humane to have 
said ‘ at the expense of my happiness?’ ” she asked. 

“With you,” he said, looking firmly into her face, “the two 
are identical.” 

She smiled and flushed a little. 

“Come and see us again,” she said softly ; “my aunt will like 
to talk to you.” 


CHAPTER XXV. 

“the lines are fallen to you in pleasant places.” 

Gilbert arrived at Rookhurst in the most delightful weather. 
It was July, but the season had been late and the woods and 
pastures had scarcely passed the point of perfection. The gar- 
dens of his charming demesne were in full glow of bloom, and 
the tinkle of the old Italian fountain fell with a sense of cool 
pleasantness on the ear. The servants, with whom the young 
man had always been a favorite, received him with the usual 
welcome, to which was added the deference due to their new 
master. The housekeeper, who had been his father’s nurse, 
showed a natural solicitude about his health ; the best rooms 
had been prepared for his accommodation as well as a dinner 
planned on the same lines of epicurean completeness as those to 
which the late baronet had educated his staff. 

“ A morsel of fish and a cutlet with a glass or two of Chablis 
is all I want, Dixon,” said Gilbert, with a touch of impatience 
as he gave back the menu to the old butler, who had presented 
it to him on the old lines of formality; “but never mind,” he 


154 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


added quickly, seeing the look of disappointment in tlie man’s 
face, “ we will go through with it. ” 

It was like the Prince Charmon, of the fairy-tales, returning 
to his Palace of Delights after a series of adventures, with the 
serious difference that no reward awaited him and that he felt 
conscious of a dreadful hollowness in the spectacle — almost as if 
he himself were an impostor. Brought into the close contact of 
possession with all that could make life desirable and tempt an 
ambitious woman, a new mood took possession of him — one of 
revolt against what seemed the mockery of fate. Why had his 
grandfather gone down to his grave, grasping in his dead hand 
that liberty of choice which alone could have given value to his 
gifts? Had he been able to go to the Chace to-morrow, or say 
the next day, when his looks would less betray the fatigue of 
his journey and the traces of his recent illness, as the uncondi- 
tional heir of Rookhurst and of Appledore, and of all the long- 
hoarded and well-known resources of his predecessor, he would 
have had more courage to plead his suit, knowing that it would 
have had the support of her family and her friends ; and wha^ 
bliss it would have been to enrich her ! 

And yet if she loved him — and it was his trembling belief 
that she did, that gave such persistency to his purpose — would 
not the fact of the cruel exigency of his situation suffice to 
break down her reserves and hesitations and win her at last to 
consent to take her place beside him? In days gone by, how 
eagerly she had agreed with him that “ only this and that” were 
necessary for happiness, and he could offer her much more than 
“this and that.” 

Gilbert began seriously to reckon his resources ; the £500 a 
year that he would take under is grandfather’s will as the alter- 
native of a splendid inheritance ; the considerable sum of money 
lying at his banker’s, which remained over and above from his 
too munificent allowance, and the rents and incomings from his 
term of possession, to which he supposed his right would be 
indubitible. In addition, his salary of attache, and chances 
of diplomatic promotion — Sir Hugh Dalrymple having parted 
from him with the most encouraging assurances — and the gayest 
capital and choicest society in Europe as the scene of his wife’s 
triumphs. 

Before the day was over the young man’s spirits had risen 
under one view of his position to sink again before the long 
light waned, under another. Later, he got his fiddle and poured 


THE LINES FALLEN IN PLEASANT PLACES. 


155 


C( 




out heart and soul through its strings, now taking a movement 
of Beethoven, then a few couplets and troubled phrases from Bach^ 
or again a piercing Miserere from some old monastic score. The 
purity of his tone and splendid bowing made the interpretation 
such as to be almost too much for his own endurance ; he felt 
as if joy and anguish were going on at the same time — flashes 
of peace and thankfulness relieving the sense of passion, of 
hinderance and of vexation. 

“I thank God,” he said, bowing his head reverently, as he at 
length put down his violin, “for one good gift that neither man 
nor woman can take away. ” 

He shut up the costly instrument in its inlaid case with more 
care, perhaps, but less tenderness than he had felt for the little 
fiddle, the gift of his kind maestro, which he had brought with 
him to his uncle Martin’s house from his poor home in Flor- 
ence. 

He slept soundly, and awoke strengthened and refreshed to 
breathe the life-giving moorland air wafted into his perfumed 
gardens, and to find on his breakfast- table the following note 
from Margery Denison : 

“Dear Gilbert Yorke and Old Friend: We hear that you 
are expected home to-day, and we know that you have been very 
ill, so that we are anxious, my aunt and I, to see for ourselves 
that you are better. Please ask us one of these long summer- 
days to Rookhurst and show us all the glory thereof. I have 
never been there as a guest, though years ago I visited it as one 
of the public, and my aunt remembers to have dined there on 
the coming of age of your father. Ask no one to meet us unless- 
it should be your dearest friend.” 

The note was signed “Your affectionate friend,” and there 
was a postscript, “ Do not answer this in person. ” 

The note troubled Gilbert. The instinct of the lover was 
chilled by the familiar kindness of the style, and he disliked 
the idea of doing the honours of a place that his guests would 
find enchanting, and yet which he was bound to forego. 

He answered the letter at once, fixing a day two days in ad- 
vance, and giving instructions to his servants that the dinner 
was to be simple and unostentatious, with no suggestion of dis- 
play in any of the arrangements. 

Then his thoughts turned to John Cartwright. Was it possi- 
ble that either Margery or her aunt would prefer the presence 
of his friend? He did not know they were on terms of inti- 


156 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


macy, and for his own part he would on this occasion prefer to 
dispense with it. He felt that the circumstances of the day 
would inevitably lead up to some moment when he should be 
unable to resist putting his fortune to the touch, and that he 
would rather endure the result, whether good or bad, alone 
without observation or sympathy. 

But as Margery had implied a wish, he wrote to John, stating 
the circumstances, and asking him to join them and stop with 
him a few days. 

“To have you all to myself at Rookhurst, Jack, will make 
Rookhurst worth having, if only for a year. Good God ! how 
bitter I feel !” 

The next day’s post brought a formal note of acceptance from 
Mrs. Sutherland, to whom he had addressed his invitation, and 
a letter from John, declining to come. 

“1 preach my first sermon in Castle Street Chapel next Sun- 
daj", ” he wrote, “and I am full of solemn perturbations and 
concealed excitement. I think my mother feels the same, but 
we do not speak of it together. So you see I should be unfit 
for the company of fine ladies ; for yours I am never unfit, and 
I would have come to you if you had been alone. Take me next 
week instead — I know of nothing so much like an “Arabian 
Night’s” tale as to be your guest at Rookhurst — never mind for 
how long. One day shall be to us as a thousand years.” 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

NOTHING PONDERABLE BUT LOVE. 

It was the hour before dinner, and the day so far had been 
pronounced by Mrs. Sutherland “ a perfect success. ” 

“ One of those, my dear Gilbert, that poor Madge and I will 
mark with a white stone — we have not many of them now.” 

“ Poor Madge” was standing just within the issue of the open 
window which led out upon the central quadrangle ; her soft, 
silk gown was of the tint of her favorite roses, and the radiance 
of her aspect, the nobleness of her port, and the brilliancy of her 
^ smile made her aunt’s expression sound like satire. 

“It is true, however,” she said, meeting Gilbert’s smile; “my 
poor aunt and I have a bad time of it just now, for she is made 
to suffer for my sins. The one excuse for my father is that he 


NOTHING PONDERABLE BUT LOVE. 


16 T 


suffers so terribly that it would be almost a baseness to resent 
his conduct or jud^e him apart from the provocations. ” 

Tliere was an inflection of pathos in her voice that touched 
Gilbert to the quick and brought his resolution to a point. 

All day, for his guests had arrived early, they liad been to- 
gether, . wandering about the grounds, peeping into pineries and 
hot-houses of a temperature that forbade investigation, saunter- 
ing through some of the glades of the park till the luncheon-bell 
recalled them to the house. The meal had been so light and 
elegant and so well designed to meet the feminine taste that 
Sir Owen himself, had he been in the flesh, could have found 
no fault with it. And, what was more to the purpose in the 
young host's opinion, Margery had said it was an ideal feast, 
worthy of Olympus itself, and that she had never known before 
how much of the gourmancle was latent in her nature. 

After lunch they had driven out for an hour or two, finding 
the neighborhood as charming as all the other surroundings of 
this fortunate youth, and since then Margery had distributed 
afternoon -tea in the pretty room below the gateway, and under 
the influence of which Mrs. Sutherland had returned her pathetic, 
thanks. 

“I quite understand,” said Gilbert, replying to Margery’s last 
words, “and I know from my own experience how brutally 
selfish sickness makes us ; but dismiss all such thoughts to-day ! 
Come out into the garden as far as the old fountain, and let us 
leave Mrs. Sutherland to rest a little before dinner. ” 

He turned to that lady, his manner being a little hurried and 
nervous. 

“May I tuck you up comfortably on this couch?” he asked. 

“Thanks, but I could not be more comfortable than I am.”’ 
She looked from him anxiously toward her niece as if she wished 
to convey a warning. “ Margery will be tired too, ” she said ; 
“could you not both stay in -doors, and — suppose you were to- 
get your violin? That would be too delightful.” 

“ Pardon me, it is helplessly out of tune. We will not walk 
far ; only to the edge of the fountain, where you will have us in 
full .view. Come, Margery.” 

He smiled and held out his hand. There was a little touch of 
authority, mixed with the natural and acquired charm of his 
manner, that would have been hard to resist. Margery had no- 
desire to resist it ; she put her hand frankly in his, and they 
stepped out on the lawn together. 


158 


PASSING THE LVOE OF WOMEN. 


When they reached the fountain they sat down on the broad 
tsun-warmed margin, and Margery unfurled the crimson parasol 
she had brought out with her ; both were bareheaded and both 
loved to sit in the sun. 

A little breeze had sprung up and lightly ruffled the sparkling 
pool in the basin toward which she leaned and dipped her 
finger-tips in the water ; the fine elastic turf beneath their feet 
was the outcome of generations of culture, and the one or two 
geometric fiower-beds with which it was discreetly starred pre- 
sented an exquisite study in Turkey- carpeting. The full-clad 
trees around swayed and whispered lightly in their topmost 
twigs, and the fragrance of a hundred roses was disengaged 
-and hung upon the air. Before them stood the old house itself, 
matchlessly picturesque, and on either hand the park rose and 
fell in delicious undulations, but in such a fashion as to leave 
open vistas to the Derbyshire hills. 

Margery looked around her from one point of vantage to 
a,nother, and then she said, in the lowest possible voice : 

“I never saw anything more beautiful or so much to be de- 
sired ! The lines have fallen to you and your cousin Philipa in 
very pleasant places. ” 

It was a woman’s ruse. She knew what impended, and with 
• the impetuosity of her character was anxious to rush through 
with it, all j^the more because she was a little uncertain of her 
own strength. Whether it were the discipline of sickness or the 
discipline of a court or the result of the energy of his purpose, 
Margery had never found Gilbert Yorke so delightful and ac- 
ceptable to her as on this day. 

He looked up as she spoke with a smile. 

“Thank you. You have broken the ice, Margery, and I am 
grateful. Of course you could not fail to know that I should 

not let this day pass without ” He had begun firmly, but 

her eyes were upon him full of sweetness and kindness, and 
his self control broke down a little. 

“You understand,” he resumed, trying again to be calm and 
quiet; “no professions nor disclosures are wanted from me. I 
love you more than ever — more than aught else. Nothing is of 
worth without you, so it is no sacrifice to let it go. Come to 
me, Margery, and I will make you happier than any woman 
was before !” 

“ My dear, my dear !” was her answer, with tears in her voice, 
as in her eyes; “this is madness — mere Midsummer madness! 


NOTHING PONDERABLE BUT LOVE. 


159 


Do you think so meanly of me that I would ruin your life and 
break another woman’s heart? We are both bound hard and 
fast. ” 

The evasion of the words brought with them an almost over- 
whelming rush of hope. He seized the hand that was lying on 
the warm marble close to his own, and said, in the suffocating 
voice of suppressed passion : 

“At last — you own — you love me, Margery? At last! At 
last !” 

She drfew away her hand, and redressed her position with a 
sharp movement. 

“ You forget that we are in the open air within eye-shot of we 
know not whom. If I am to talk to you — and I want to talk 
to you, you must control yourself and listen to reason. How 
many times have I told you that I love you — I will not insult 
you by saying like a brother, nor is it like that — but as the 
dearest and sweetest of friends? Let it rest so, Bertie 1” 

“ Oh, yes, I will be content with that 1 Become my wife, 
Madge, and you shall love me as few women have loved their 
husbands, because no husband yet has so adored his wife. ” 

She smiled and shook her head. 

“ Suppose — I trust to you as a gentleman to hear me quietly — 
suppose you induced me to listen to you. We should both out- 
rage right and reason to a degree ,that would justly cut us off 
from sympathy. Your grandfather had a splendid fortune to 
leave, and opposing claims to satisfy. He thought he was doing 
right when he made you his heir and appointed the sister of 
the man he disinherited to share the inheritance with you. She 
is young ; she is sweet ; she is good. If you turn your back upon 
her you offer her a cruel insult, aggravated by the greatness 
of what you forego. As for me — hear me out, Gilbert — were 
I inclined, which I am not, to listen to you, my poor father 
would curse me with bell and candle, and I should still further 
embitter and perhaps hasten the end which cannot be very far 
off. The punishment would fall on my aunt also, who has been 
good to me all my life. But even this is not the worst. I should 
hamper and impoverish the man who loves me, and to whom 
riches and all that riches bring are only a proper appendage and 
in return for his mistaken devotion I should make his life 
thoroughly miserable. 

“ How could that be, when you had given me the desire of my 
heart? I am neither thankless nor inconstant. To have you so 


160 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


close that nothing could divide us would animate me to reach 
a point I should never touch otherwise, and inspire me with 
an invincible power to make you happy. No, let me speak, 
Margery — it is my turn : I am not a sentimental boy any longer, 
but have learnt what women, want and would not begrudge your 
beauty its privileges or its triumphs. You should know the 
great world and be known of it ; all your pleasures and successes 
should be mine. I would only bargain for little snatches of 
quiet, such as we have had as boy and girl together when the 
others were elsewhere, and I had my little fiddle in fiiy arms, 
and you listened all eager delight, and our hearts were so full 
that they could hold no more.” 

He stopped, and silence fell between them filled in by the^ 
plash and fall of the fountain. 

Then Margery said, “If I ask you a question, do not be de- 
ceived by it, as if I were w^avering in my resolution. Only 
tell me where the means for carrying out your idyll are to come 
from ?” 

He told her quietly and without exaggeration, though all his 
pulses were leaping with the hope she bade him relinquish. 

Margery listened without interruption, and with the tender, 
indulgent smile that had very little encouragement in it. 

“ My dear Gilbert, ” she answered when he had done, looking- 
at him with eyes in which kindness and mockery were at strife, 
“it would take at least two- thirds of the income you speak of 
to supply me with gowns suitable for these Viennese functions. 
I have no generosity to match yours, and should inevitably 
hate the man whom I had made poor. Give up your dream, my 
friend.” She cast a swift inclusive glance around, and added : 

“Nothing, surely, can be easier than to reconcile yourself to 
realities !” 

She rose as she spoke, as if to intimate that the controversy 
was over ; and as she stood for a moment on tlie lawn before 
him, she shook out the shimmering folds of her gown and raised 
her hands to arrange her slightly disordered hair with a little air 
of weariness, real or affected. Every movement was singu- 
larly graceful and alluring. Gilbert had not risen, but sat 
watching her. 

“There is one question,” he said in a muffled voice, “that I 
should like to ask you, if it did not seem like a baseness to ask 
it. Would you have answered me like this, if I could have 
given you Rookhurst as well as — my soul and body?” 


NOTHING PONDERABLE BUT LOVE. 


161 


She flashed down upon him a glance of superb indignation. 

“ I refuse to answer ! And yet, have I not given proof — there 
is no indelicacy in alluding to what all the world knows — that 
I am not one of the women willing to sell themselves?” 

“ Forgive me ; I did not dare to imply that. . What I want to 
know, and cannot rest without knowing, is simply this — my 
poverty ; poverty that seems to me affluence is the bar between 
us? Otherwise, Margery, otherwise!” 

She turned and began to walk toward the house, so that he 
was obliged to rise and walk besidB her. 

“You have not answered me ” he said. “Do you know that I 
think I could leave you better if you. loved me?” 

“A paradox,” she answered, “that if it admit of explanation 
at all, does so on lines of such utter selfishness that I will not 
admit your testimony against yourself. You mean,” with a 
sparkle of humour in her glance, “that you would sleep better 
to-night if you knew I was crying my ej^es out for hopeless 
love of you?” 

“Yes,” he said seriously, “I acknowledge that I should.” 

“And after such a confession you expect to retain my regard ?”^ 

“Ah, regard !” he rejoined eagerly; “there it is! lam not 
satisfied with your ‘regard.’ I would have you regard me 
differently. If I thought you would go home to-day and weep 
for me, I should thank God and take courage, for then I should 
feel sure that, sooner or later, you would dare the shame of 
poverty for my sake. ” 

“ I never said shame, Bertie, and you are quite mistaken. If 
I loved you with all my heart and soul — but I do, I do ; I love 
you with both ; but if I loved you passionately, inordinately, as^ 
a woman shouldn’t, I think I should be able to keep my secret. 
I will not frustrate your grandfather nor rob you of your in- 
heritance. You would soon regret it when struggling up-hill 
with a penniless wife behind ; nor, worst of all, will I shut the 
door upon your cousin’s splendid prospects.” 

“Under any circumstances, I shall not marry my cousin.” 

Margery looked curiously at his white set face. 

“ That is, of course, for your own decision, ” she said coldly. 
“At least, I have announced mine. And now I am glad to 
see aunt coming to meet us. We shall have nothing more to 
say to each other this evening than a friendly good-bye.” 

11 


162 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

THE WESLEYAN MINISTER. 

The growth of a reputation is a very curious thing, the prog- 
ress and results varying beyond all calculation. 

One fact at this time was being recognized in Copplestone and 
far beyond its boundaries, for the ramifications of the Connexion 
spread far and wide — namely, that John Cartwright was becom- 
ing a power in his church. 

As a preacher his influence spread slowly but surely ; he was 
quite deficie t in the fluent, melodious flow and splendid wordi- 
ness on which so many men build up their claim to a follow- 
ing. From the depths of a mind that had dwelt long and 
exhaustively on the principles and doctrines of Christianity, 
and that had itself endured the unspeakable anguish of doubt 
and religious eclipse he reasoned and convinced on the grounds 
of his thorough equipment, of his deep personal convictions, now 
rooted like a tower of strength impregnable to sway or shock, 
and of the wide humanity of his nature. Without unpassioned 
appeals or rush of language he seemed able to lay his hand on 
the springs of conscience and feeling, and to make the belief 
that animated or exercised his own soul vibrate responsively in 
those of his hearers. 

When this sort of spiritual magnetism exists, it has a reflex 
power, for the audience which has been strongly moved by the 
thought of the speaker sends back the wavie of sensation to his 
own heart and brain with accumulated energy. 

But character exercises a still greater influence than utter- 
ance ; and in John Cartwright there was a singleness, a direct- 
ness and a strength of daily purpose that seemed always equal 
and always trustworthy. To make, according to his opportun- 
ity, the world better than he found it, and if possible, happier 
summed up the object of his life ; nor did he wait for great oc- 
casions or interesting subjects. According to the practise of 
his church, he was brought officially into intimate contact with 
all sorts and conditions of people, and his sympathy as well as 
his help was just as much at the service of the mill-hand, the 
servant girl, the jaded postman or policeman off their respective 
beats as of those who brought trained intelligence or influence 
or charm of individuality with them. 


THE WESLEYAN MINISTER. 


163 


It began to be understood that to relieve and to console were 
held by him not as a duty but as a prerogative, and also that he 
was a man not easily tired or discouraged. To speak of him as 
self-denying would be a mistake, as that implies conflict and 
victory ; and John was conscious of neither. Possibly the means 
he had at command, for the wealthy draper was his son’s 
almoner, counted for something in the general sum of consider- 
ation ; for money gives power not only in the general sense, but 
through man delicate and hidden springs of action and of 
feeling. 

Simple and reticent as in his boyhood, and with much of his 
boyhood’s shyness and awkwardness remaining, he had the gift 
of winning human trust and confidence, so that sorrows that 
had rankled or shames that had burned inwardly for long years 
were yielded to his voice, and took their balm of healing at 
his hands. He was the forlorn hope in any official pressure or 
difficulty, being always willing to do the one thing wanted, 
however humble or obscure, without the interference of per 
sonal predilections, for he recognised no gradations in the 
divine service. It was said by some who knew him best that 
John Cartwright was never seen to such advantage in Castle 
Street pulpit as when he served some little wayside chapel and 
poured forth in gracious but unconscious adaptation the rich 
stores of his mind and heart. 

It was a curious fact, but an undoubted tribute to his person- 
ality, that Margery Denison, who had tasted the wine and 
gathered the roses of life and had passed in review the elect of 
London society, conceived an interest, even an admiration, for 
the young Wesleyan minister that was introducing an element 
of disturbance into the monotony of her daily existence. 

Amongst Cyril Denison’s forefathers had been men who had 
cut themselves adrift from the National Church, then lying in 
the torpor of the eighteenth century, and who had lent their 
name and position to the support of the new movement which 
was then shaking the world from its slumber. 

Therefore, when he knew that his sister and his daughter 
were beginning to frequent Castle Street Chapel, taking out for 
the purpose that same carriage and pair of horses (very much the 
worse for long service) in which he and Margery had been 
seated when the two cousins first crossed their path, he raised 
no objections, contenting himself with a sneer at the poverty of 
their resources. 


164 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


“You are quite right,” rej)lied Margery; “I go to chapel in 
default of any other function, and listen to John Cartwright^ 
because somehow or other he helps me to bear 1113' life without 
breaking out into mutin3^ ” 

“A life of 3’our own choice, and therefore the penalties of 
which I could desire were greater,” was his answer. 

Margery smiled. “ And 3"et you do jmur best, ” she said, and 
then immediately' regretted the words as imdutifiil, and added 
impulsively: “Forgive me! John Cartwright convinces me of 
sin. I should like to win you over and compel you to love me. ” 

“ The means of performing the process that you describe as 
'winning me over’ were in your own hands some time ago, and 
you rejected them. I scarcely think my life will be long enough 
or fate so kind as to give you another chance. ” 

Margery turned away with a feeling of hoj^eless defeat. 

Her life just now was very weary. 8iie had the feeling of 
being shut in bounds from which sooner or later she must es- 
cape. Under the influence of her best feelings she had refused 
the magnificent j^roposals of Lord Thimberley and was now 
chafing under a feeling of self -contempt, because she regretted 
passionately — not the action, indeed, but the consequences that 
it had entailed upon her in the added bitterness of her father’s 
behaviour and the fretful complainings of her aunt. 

It was under this pressure of weariness and isolation that she 
conceived an earnest wish to ask Philipa Yorke on a visit to 
the Chace, always supposing that Mr. Denison wvKild not put 
his veto on the proposal. There was a feverish desire in Mar- 
gery’s mind to bring about a union between .Gilbert Yorke and 
his cousin, the sources of which she did not examine too 
closely. Had she not fully disclosed them to her lover himself? 

Mrs. Sutherland was fairly intimate with Mrs. Yorke, though 
Margery’s knowledge of Philipa was of the slightest, and it 
was a letter to the former lady from the latter which had first 
suggested the idea of the invitation. Mrs. Yorke had mentioned 
that while Edward’s health seemed to improve as if in physical 
protest against the injustice of Sir Owen’s will, PhiliiDa was 
growing more and more ailing and delicate. 

Undoubtedly the bracing air of Yorkshire, not to mention the 
proximity of Rookhurst, would do the invalid good. 

Margery discussed the matter with her aunt, who, even more 
ennuyee than herself, was quite willing to enter into agreement, 
though doubting her brother’s consent. 


“l AM YOUR BONDSLAVE FOR LIFE.” 165 

There will be no difficulty with Mrs. Yorke, ” she reriiarked. 
■“She will jump at the opportunity of sending the poor girl 
wdthin easy reach of her cousin. ” 

It is the unexpected that always happens, as we know. To 
the surprise of both daughter and sister, Mr. Denison gave his 
•consent to the proposal. 

Possibly, in his ow^n despite, he had been touched by Mar- 
gery’s kindness and forbearance, which were indeed noble at 
times ; possibly he thought that the future mistress of Rookhurst, 
in which light all the world regarded Philipa, would be a not 
undesirable friend for his daughter in the dark days that were 
probably in store for her. Also he knew" that his w-omenkind 
would take good care that the stranger did not intrude on his 
privacy. 

“You may do as 5'ou choose, on the one condition that you 
keep her out of my w-ay, ” w"as his gracious ultimatum. 

So Margery despatched her invitation, couched in the most 
wunning terms, and as she closed her letter and slipped it into 
the bag she w"as conscious of a flutter of feeling hard to define. 

“What ! Bare of all disguise is my motive?” she asked herself 
anxiously. “Is it magnanimity or discretion?” 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

“l AM YOUR BONDSLAVE FOR LIFE!” 

It w-as Saturday morning, an hour before the early dinner at 
Elm Lodge ; Mrs. Cartwu-ight w"as busy in her linen-closet, pass- 
ing in review^ her stores of fine linen and finer damask, and 
laying out in her methodical manner the napery that w"ould be 
required for the ensuing week. 

It w"as one of her household duties that she relished most ; 
indeed, it w"ould not be too much to say that she derived more 
intimate pleasure from the sight of the glistening piles, each 
article daintily embroidered by her own fingers with the family 
monogram, than she w-ould have done from the finest w"ork of 
art. She had been knowm to remark to her female friends, wdth 
an air of chastened self-gratulation, that “she never stained 
her linen w-ith an ink-mark.” Perhaps if there w-as one satis- 
faction of this kind keener than another, it w-as the contempla- 
tion of her son’s shirts. 

Just at this period life w"as running w"ith her on oiled wheels ; 


166 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


her son was fulfilling the fondest ambitions and the most sacred 
aspirations she had cherished, the only drawback. being a trem- 
bling fear lest he might fall within the scope of the ominous 
warning : “ Take heed when all men speak well of thee !” 

There was still the rankling grievance of his extravagant re- 
gard for the worldling, Gilbert Yorke ; but by common consent 
this was a subject rarely discussed between them, and John had 
passed the age when she could call him to account in respect to 
the spending of every hour of his time, although it must be 
conceded that this immucity was not unfrequently violated. 

On Saturdays Martin Cartwright always dined at his private 
house, and it was his son’s habit so to arrange his own work as 
to be able to call for his father at his place of business in order 
that they might walk home in company. 

Therefore, it was with a certain surprise that Mrs. Cartwright 
heard the familiar click of the garden-gate a full hour before 
the usual time, and glancing hastily from the window which 
overlooked the garden, perceived her son walking up the gravel- 
path toward the house, and alone. 

A sudden misgiving seized her ; she went close up to the 
window, that she might watch him more closelj’. As she did so 
he looked up and smiled, with a little movement of the hand 
in greeting, but the action showed her that it was performed 
with difficulty, and that he was very pale. 

At that moment it seemed to Rachel Cartwright that she fore- 
stalled the unspeakable anguish which it had been her daily 
prayer as a mother to be spared, and a speechless cry rushed 
Godwards from her heart that he would avert the one blow to 
which her faith was not equal. 

Then she struggled with herself for a few moments before she 
went down stairs to face the unknown trouble with due com- 
posure. 

She found John sitting in the dining-room, with his hat on 
the table beside him. To her watchful anxiety even this trifling 
circumstance seemed significant ; for, as a matter of routine, it 
should have been hung up in the hall. 

He looked towards her as she entered, but did not rise or smile ; 
if he made an effort to speak it was a fruitless one. She came 
close up to him, and in a voice of unnatural calm : 

“ What has happened ? Try and tell me ; are you taken sud- 
denly ill?” 

He did try, speaking with painful distinctness. 


AM YOUR BONDSLAVE FOR LIFE.” 167 

“ No, but I have met with an accident. I have been knocked 
down by a steam-tram on the Seamoor Road. It is only the 
shock — no bones are broken — I have been able to walk home !” 

She gazed at him with silent consternation. The pallor of 
the swarthy face, with its unmistakable look of pain, so moved 
her that she could scarcely control some untoward burst of feel- 
ing. Looking at him more narrowly, she saw that his coat was 
torn about the sleeve and shoulder. 

“Are you sure no bones are broken?” she asked. “Did no one 
witness the accident, that you were allowed to walk home 
alone? But — I see ! I will not ask you any questions.” 

She turned swiftly to the sideboard, where a flagon of fresh- 
water with glasses always stood, filled one of them, adding a 
little brandy from the well -stored cellaret below, and came back 
to his side. 

“ Drink this, dear, ” she said quietly, “ and let me help you to 
the sofa. We must send for the doctor. ” 

“ Do not move me, ” he entreated. “ I am quite comfortable 
here, and better already. ” He had drunk the mixture eagerly, 
and returned her the empty glass with a smile that seemed to 
confirm the assertion. 

She assented, too wisely tender to press the point ; and then, 
seeing that she might safely leave him alone, went out of the 
room to dismiss a servant for medical help. 

Left alone, John Cartwright, with his elbow heavily propped 
on the table beside him, covered his face with his hand. His 
lips moved, not in prayer, but in thanksgiving that he had been 
the means of snatchirg from a horrible death, or from mutila- 
tion almost worse than death, the woman of his secret adora- 
tion. 

How it had all happened he scarcely knew ; the scene was one 
of confusion in his memory that he shrank from recalling. 

He saw the hideous vehicle standing on the lines of the road 
along which his business lay, and at a point where there was a 
steep decline. The next moment he saw it in rapid motion, and 
that simultaneously a tall girl, instantly recognised, attempted 
to cross the road in front of the advancing car. 

Under ordinary conditions at the distance which separated 
them she might have done this with safety, but from some 
strange negligence the driver had failed to apply the brake to 
his engine, and had consequently lost the power to regulate the 
downward velocity of its impetus. 


168 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


There are crises where the spirit animates the bodily powers 
almost to the point of miracle. Some paces separated John 
Cartwright from Margery Denison, but with a spring I,like that 
of some wild animal, he reached her side in time to drag her 
back out of danger, receiving himself a blow from the buffer 
of the engine which flung him happily beyond the line of rails. 
When the engineer was able to check his course he saw that 
John had risen and was evidently assuring his companion that 
he was unhurt ; hence he deemed it the wisest policy to pursue 
his way ; the two were left standing alone in the comparative 
solitude of the road. 

For a moment or two they looked speechlessly into each other’s 
eyes, the conflict of feeling — of horror, of gratitude and of 
anxiety — deprived Margery of any power of expression beyond 
the fixed, eager, passionate gaze. She was so deadly pale and 
trembled so violently that John was filled with a terror that 
deadened him to his own sensations. 

“You are not hurt? It did not touch you?” he stammered. 

“I? Do not speak of me !” she said, rallying her strength with 
a desperate effort. “Are you hurt? That is the question. 
Lean against me for a moment, Mr. Cartwright. Oh, do not 
stand on idle scruples !” 

As she spoke, being as tall as he, she passed her arm about 
his shoulders, and offered her slender but vigorous body as his 
prop ; and he, dazed and bruised by the concussion, and with 
what consciousness was left rapt and bewildered, had no power 
but to accept her help. 

For a few moments they stood thus. With her every feeling 
was absorbed in gratitude and anxiety that reached the point of 
distress, while liis sensations suggested to him the idea of a 
divine torture. Then the sense of the situation stimulated him 
to exertion ; he moved away from her a little and smiled. 

“ Thank you, I am better — much better. I think I can walk 
home. You are quite sure you are not hurt?” 

She disregarded the question, her attention being riveted on 
his movements. 

“You are not deceiving me? You are really better? I pray 
God you may only have suffered a shock — but that is too much ! 
Can you move your arms, Mr. Cartwright? Can you walk — just 
a little, to ease my mind?” 

“Perfectly. You see that I can !” returning to the spot where 
she was standing, and stretching out first one arm and then the 


“l AM YOUR BONDSLAVE FOR LIFE.” 169 

'Other to reassure lier. He found the process sufficiently painful, 
but the result convinced him that he really had escaped without 
broken bones. 

Then Margery took out her handkerchief, and in spite of his 
protest began to wipe off assiduously the dust that had gathered 
on his clothes. 

“What will you do?” she asked. “There is no cab to be seen, 
•of course, and I am sure you will not be able to walk home.” 

“ I am quite able ; our house is little more than a quarter of 
an hour’s walk from here, and I would not take a cab on any 
4iccount ; it would alarm my mother. What I most regret is 
that I cannot see you to a place of safety. ” 

“You will be able to do that. I am going in your direction, 
and we will walk together. I beseech you, Mr. Cartwright, to 
lean on my arm ; I am not one of the weak women. ” 

Her voice shook ; for a moment her lips quivered. From what 
a horrible death he had saved her, and at what risk to himself ! 
She conquered the weakness, knowing that if she yielded at all 
^he would break down ignominio isly. 

A few people passed them on the road, but there was not much 
in their appearance to challenge curiosity. John had soon 
withdrawn himself from Margery’s arm, and the damage to his 
•dress was not conspicuous. 

By virtue of a painful effort he was able to walk by her side 
without faltering, the intense anxiety her looks and words con- 
veyed giving him the necessary courage and filling his mind 
with a gratitude that touched on worship. His own action 
seemed of so little account and the recognition so dispropor- 
tionate ! 

About half-way to Elm Lodge the road diverged into three 
cross -ways, one of them leading to the vicarage, where it had 
been Margery’s intention to call. She wished to give up her 
visit and accompany John to his own house, but he opposed the 
idea strenuously. 

“You cannot walk home without rest and refreshment. Miss 
Denison, ” he said, “ and here it is close at hand. It will be the 
greatest relief to me to think of you as under shelter. Y^ou will 
promise not to return the same route alone?” He shuddered 
involuntarily and became very pale. 

“ I promise. I am going to spend the day with Mrs. Slous- 
field, and my people send the carriage for me this evening. 
I think it will be best to carry out the arrangement. But I am 


170 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


quite equal to going home with you and coming back again. 
You do not like the idea? You mean that you wish us to part 
here — that you prefer to go home alone ?” 

He signified assent, then added : 

“ My mother would be alarmed if she saw us together. ” 

“And why should she not be alarmed?” demanded Margery. 
“She will need to thank God to-day, as she has never thanked 
God before — first for giving her such a son and then for sparing 
him to her ! As for me, I am your bondslave for life !” 

Tears filled her eyes as she held out both her hands to him. 

As he took them and let them fall wdth a slight respectful 
pressure, he remembered that it was almost precisely on this 
spot that she had given the same greeting to Gilbert Yorke on 
the first occasion that he himself had seen her. The thought 
checked the ardour of the words that had sprung to his lips. 

“Ah !’* she said with a slightly disappointed air, “you are used 
to saving souls, and think less of redeeming one poor girl from 
bodily destruction than she could wish. However, I shall try 
and make Mrs. Cartwright understand. Please tell her that 
nothing will satisfy me but to be allowed to make my enquiries 
in person to-morrow. ” 

And so they parted, Margery continuing to stand at the cross- 
ways to watch John’s progress so long as he was in sight, and 
he, fully aware of the fact, keeping up appearances until a turn 
of the road relieved him of a strain that had become well-nigh 
intolerable. 

It took him more than half an hour to reach his mother’s door, 
and by that time his fortitude and strength were equally ex- 
hausted. 

The next day it was known far and wide that an accident had 
happened to the Rev. John Cartwright, but it was not known 
that the injuries had been sustained in behalf of another. 

John did not mention Miss Denison, and she had not redeemed 
her promise of a call ; it is true a message of enquiry had been 
received from The Chace, but it was in Mrs. Sutherland’s 
name, and accepted by Mrs. Cartwright as an index of the re- 
spect in which her son was held. 

The doctors had definitely pronounced that their patient had 
broken no bones, but contused bruises and shock to the system 
were perhaps ills of quite as serious a nature and would demand 
care and skilful nursing. 

John submitted to his bed and to seclusion with a readiness 


AM YOUR BONDSLAVE FOR LIFE.” 171 

that increased his mother’s apprehensions, but after a day or two- 
she was persuaded to dismiss her fears ; and then, it must be 
owned, that she rather enjoyed the situation. She would allow 
no one to wait upon him but herself, and she welcomed the op- 
portunity given to her for enjoying her son’s individual society,, 
until her vigilance detected that he appeared to be under a cloud. 

At first she supposed it was some spiritual trouble, and she 
questioned him as closely as her growing reverence and his con- 
stitutional reserve would permit ; but he reassured her on this- 
point. 

“Then you suffer more pain than you confess or than the 
doctors allow ?” « 

“Oh, no ! I have some pain, of course ; but it is nothing, and: 
is less every day. I shall soon have forgotten all about it. Do 
not worry about me, mother !” 

He smiled and pressed her hand, but she little knew what 
agonies of suppressed irritability her ceaseless watchfulness, 
caused him. 

He was fighting a desperate battle with himself. 

The impression wdiich Margery had made upon him as a boy, 
and which had never been allowed to slumber, owing to the 
sustained though secret oversight of her doings claimed from 
his friedship by Gilbert Yorke, and stimulated by the two re- 
cent occasions on which he had seen and conversed with her, 
had since the last fateful incident grown outside his control 
and assumed the dimensions of a passion. 

Neither conscience the most exacting nor the strictest de- 
mands of religion can forbid the rising of a young man’s love 
to the full springtide of yearning and pain. He knew that she 
was not for him, but that did not lessen by a hair’s breadth the 
strength of the mad craving to possess her. Could some im- 
possible conjunction of circumstances have given him what was. 
the desire of his eyes as well as of his heart, his loyalty to his. 
friend would have enabled him to turn his back on his oppor- 
tunity, but that made the stings of passion and of pain no wliit 
easier to bear. 

As he lay motionless in bed, sometimes feigning sleep as su 
safe-guard against interruption, he lived over and over again 
every point and detail of wdiat had happened. He saw her as^ 
he had seen her the moment before the accident, walking as na 
other girl walked, removed to an atmosphere of her own by her 
sweet composure and stately loveliness, aloof from every-day 


172 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


humanity. The next, composure and stateliness had vanished ; 
the sudden pallor, the wide-eyed anguish, the poignant note of 
her delicious voice were not the outcome of personal terror, but 
of a sympathy so warm and eager that as he recalled it his 
heart beat with a sense of suffocation. 

How fine and wide the nature must be that could thus identify 
itself with the danger of another, almost a stranger, and, by 
all social laws, her inferior ! How generous the heart in which 
gratitude rose to the height of a passion ! 

It was with a sort of divine shame that he recalled the touch 
of her sustaining arm, the sweet womanship with which she 
had placed her superb strength at his service, and the bewil- 
dering extravagance of phrase in which her recognition of what 
he had done for her had found voice : 

“As for me, I am your bondslave for life !” 

He repeated the words softly to himself with a smile sadder 
than tears ; it was a splendid hyperbole for a fine lady to use 
toward the man who had saved her life, but for the man him- 
self it was a bare statement of truth. 

“I think I have always loved her — I know that I always 
.'Shall. ” 

That she had spoken and acted under the strong excitement 
of the moment was evident (if evidence were needed), since she 
had not called on his mother according to her promise. He was 
glad of it. It spared him inevitable cross-examination, quite 
natural, but none the less trying, and left him the earnest hope 
that her share in the accident might always remain unknown. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

MOTHER AND SON. 

A WEEK after the accident Gilbert Yorke came to see him. 
Mrs. Cartwright announced the visitor to her son, and suggested 
in the same breath that he had better not risk an interview, but 
content himself with sending a message to his cousin. 

“But, my dear mother, I have no excuse for denying myself. 
I am all but well, and it will give me the greatest pleasure to 
^ee him.” 

“I did not suppose you would hear reason, John,” her smile 
softening her words, “but you and Gilbert Yorke never meet, I 
•observe, without its disturbing your ordinary frame of mind. 


MOTHER AND SON. 


1 ?:^ 


and I naturally wish to keep you from any excitement just now. 

“The disturbance does me good, mother ; tlie ordinary flow 
is too sluggish.” 

She looked at him with great tenderness. 

“I thank God,” she said, “tliat fire and quicksilver do not 
run in your veins as in his, or I should have played my mother’& 
part even worse than I have !” And she went out to send the 
guest upstairs, without giving him the chance of reply. 

A minute later Gilbert knocked and entered. 

John occupied his own bedroom, which, with the exception of 
a writing-table and a commodious book-case, w^as almost as bare- 
as in the days of his boyhood. The couch on wdiich he lay had 
been brought up from the dining-room for his use, and a large 
rug was spread before the hearth and gave an unfamiliar air of 
comfort to the room. As the .August day was chilly, a good 
fire burnt cheerily in the capacious grate. 

Even Mrs. Cartwright would have commended the quietness 
with which Gilbert went up to his friend. He did not speak 
till John’s finn hand-clasp and cordial voice convinced him that 
he was not so ill as he had feared. Then he said, looking round : 

“It is like old times, Jack, with a difference. How mucli 
better this is than the top room of the ambassador’s house in 
the Make room on the couch for me ; I want to under- 

stand how this happened.” 

John asked how he had heard of the accident. 

“ I heard of it this morning ; did you suppose I had known it 
sooner?. And I heard of it through Margery Denison.” 

It was to the credit of John’s firmness that he neither stirred 
nor changed colour, though his heart seemed to leap within him. 

“ I have her letter in my pocket, ” continued Gilbert, “ and you 
shall hear for yourself what she says.” 

He pulled out the letter from the breast-pocket of his coat, 
their contiguity being such that John could see as well as if he 
had held it in his own hand. There was a slight, indefinable 
perfume hanging about it ; otherwise it had no distinctly femi- 
nine daintiness, the envelope being large and square and the 
handwriting firm and decisive. It ran thus : 

Dear Gilbert : It has just occurred to me as possible that you 
may* not have heard of your friend, Mr. Cartwright’s accident, 
in the seclusion you choose to keep at Rookhurst. He has been 
knocked down by a steam -tram and severely hurt through put- 
ting his own life in jeopardy to save that of a girl who had 


174 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


Iieedlessly ran into danger. I witnessed the incident and am 
very anxious for authentic news of him. I should have en- 
quired in person, but my poor father is worse than usual and 
will not allow me to leave him, though Heaven knows I can 
do him no good except by the affliction of my own soul. 

Your aunt Yorke has lent Philippa to us for a time, and we 
find her an immense comfort — even my father likes her. If you 
are kind you will come to The Chace as soon as possible to pay 
your respects to one cousin and to bring us news of the other. 

Your affectionate friend, 

Margery Denison. 

John devoured the words with his eyes, while at the same 
time his ears hung upon the reader’s voice. One sense was not 
sufficient nor two even ; he would like to have added a third 
and handled the letter, but rigorously forebore. He was con- 
scious of a sensation of physical faintness as he watched Gil 
bert carefully refold the letter and restore it to his pocket. 

At first he had felt a throb of exultation at the idea of there 
being a secret between him and Margery ; that she had chosen 
to establish this bond of union. Then it assumed another as- 
pect and looked like distance and reserve ; he experienced a 
deep satisfaction that he had kept his own counsel in the matter. 

“ Tell me about it. Jack, ” repeated Gilbert ; “ it was scarcely 
the act of a friend to let me find it out in this fashion. ” 

“ I ought to have written, or rather, I could not write, as I 
have sprained the fingers of my right hand, and I thought a 
letter from my mother would have made too much of what is a 
trifle after all.” 

John spoke with solicitous kindness, because for almost the 
first time in his life the presence of his friend was irksome, and 
he would have escaped from it if he could. 

Gilbert looked at him steadily. 

“Is there anything wrong between us?” he asked. 

“No, no,” cried the other with an eagerness so unusual as to 
confirm the misgiving excited. “ Simply, I am out of tune ; 
confinement does not agree with me. ” 

Gilbert smiled a little doubtfully, and getting up from the 
sofa began to walk about the room, prying into the corners, and 
taking note of any additions or alterations that had been made, 
but it was only a safety-valve' for a deep-seated unrest. Then 
he began to question John about the accident : “ Had he got the 
best advice? Was he sure there were no internal injuries?” and 
so forth ; he was to tell him all about it. 


MOTHER AND SON. 


175 


John did so in an inclusive, cursory manner, especially in 
regard to the “ girl” he was reported to have “ saved” ; his great 
fear was that Gilbert would ask “ who she was, ” or “ if he knew 
her,” but his integrity was spared the dilemma. 

“And you can walk about, old fellow?” 

“Almost as well as ever; I am to go downstairs to-morrow. 
And now tell me what is on your mind ; I have nothing in the 
world to do but to think how to help you. ” 

Gilbert came back to the fire-place and leaned against the 
mantel with his eyes on the fioor. 

“ You read me like a book. Jack ! It is a disgrace for a man 
to wear his heart on his sleeve as I do — only — with you I let my- 
self ^go. I am a selfish brute to bring my troubles to you when 
you are sick and suffering, but yet — misery like mine has its 
excuses. ” 

John Cartwright smiled slightly. He had seen a good deal of 
misery in the course of his short experience of life — and misery 
in the raw, as it were, overwhelming, brutalising, not to be 
escaped — and the contrast between such and the speaker, so 
generously endowed by nature and fortune, struck him with a 
sort of pathetic humour. 

Instantly his heart reproached him and his understanding too : 
Of what account were externals if the one boon were denied 
which made for happiness? 

Gilbert went on : “ It is the old story ; I have spoken and she 
will not hear ! Were I convinced that she did not care for me, 
I would take my dismissal like a man, and bear it as I best 
could. But,” he looked up wistfully, “I think she does, and 
says me nay because I should lose a fortune for her dear sake.” 

“But you have told her ho^v lightly you would let that go?” 

“Aye !” returned Gilbert, with the sudden vigour of the North 
country accent. “But her way is to talk of it as a sacrifice — 
one that I should regret when it was made and that shall not 
be made on her account. She is so much my friend that she 
takes my life into her keeping and tears out the heart of it, 
then gives me back the miserable remnant and bids me be 
Iiappy !” 

He turned and began to walk up and down the room. 

“You have nothing to say?” he asked presently, in a tone that 
bore witness to the intense irritation of his mind, for John had 
kept a miserable silence. 

“What can I say? I — I know nothing of the way in which 


176 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


ladies like Miss Denison feel and reason about these things. 
She may possibly be influenced by a noble consideration for 
your cousin, Miss Yorke. ” 

“ But I shall marry Philippa none the more because Margery 
refuses to marry me,” cried Gilbert eagerly. “Though it is a. 
shame to speak of her in this way. ” 

“Perhaps Miss Denison does not believe this: slie may think 
if you were convinced of her resolution, you would hardly 
forego so much for so little. ” 

“Jack, you surprise me ! I should forego my liberty and bind 
myself to a horrible slavery — that of marriage with a girl I do- 
not love, but who deserves to be loved. You at least will 
•scarcely think me morally bound to marry my cousin because 
my grandfather has been cruel enough to make my inheritance 
depend upon my doing soV” 

“•And hers also, ” John suggested gently. 

“Ah, that staggers me a little ! Sir Owen wished to bind me 
hand and foot, but — I refuse to be bound ! Philippa must take 
her modest fortune, as I shall do and please herself. ” 

He paused and took a few more impatient turns through the 
room, very much to the distress of John’s nerves, which were 
greatly exercised by the pain and difficulty of the discussion. 
Presently he resumed speech in a tone of intense bitterness. 

“ I have never deceived myself by thinking much of m3’self 
there is nothing great or heroic about me. The onl^" power God 
gave me was the power of loving passionately and faithfully. 
He knows how I adored my mother, and how her death left me 
scarcely half alive ; indeed, I honestly think it was onH my 
love for Margeiy Denison and the hope that soon came with it, 
and your kindness. Jack, that kept me alive. I cannot do with- 
out her ! I have not the courage to go through life under thia 
torment of unsatisfied desire for what is noblest and best — for 
what I adore. Help me. Jack !” 

“How is it possible for me to help you? I would help j^ou if 
I could.” 

Gilbert came toward his friend, who was now sitting in a 
corner of the couch, and la\flng his hands on his shoulders 
bent over him with his pleading ej^es and voice tuned to the 
finest note of pathos. 

“Jack, if my life were at stake, 3^011 would not need me to 
teach you how to plead for me ! Do what you can. She tells 
me again and again that she loves me dearly as — as comrade 


MOTHER YND SON. 


177 


and friend. I want nothing more — I — you will understand ! 
There will be no indelicacy. She knows we have but one heart 
between us. She regards what I say as mere lover’s oaths — 
vour words will carry weight — she has the highest opinion of 
yrour judgment ” 

“The thing is impossible !” said John, shrinking a little. “It 
would be impossible on your own account — you will see that on 
reflection — a man could not stoop so low ! And on hers, it 
would be an intolerable impertinence — an outrage, even. ” 

“ In that case let it pass, ” and Gilbert turned away abruptly 
as he spoke. “ I beg your pardon for suggesting anything that 
you can view in such a light, but we are poor judges of fitness 
when begging for dear life. Were the case reversed I can im- 
agine myself speaking of you in a way that need not degrade 
any man, and that no woman, however proud or tenacious 
could resent as an outrage. ” 

“Ah, but I have not your facilities — your advantages!” John 
spoke almost with a groan. 

“ Forget it. Jack. What a beast selfishness makes of me I 
Dear old fellow, have I hurt you so much?” 

He looked round the room for stimulant or cordial, but saw 
nothing ; at the same moment there was a short imperious knock 
a the door, and Mrs. Cartwright entered the room bearing in her 
hand an old fashioned broth-basin, which would be exalted on 
shelf or cabinet to-day, containing a decoction of beef -tea, to 
which Liebig himself might have awarded a certificate of 
merit. 

She glanced sharply from one young man to the other, though 
John did his best to look composed and indifferent, and as his 
face was not of a flexible type, might have succeeded under 
less searching scrutiny. 

“It is as I feared,” she said, putting down the basin, because 
she felt that her hand shook. “You two, I think, never met 
yet but mischief was brewed between you.” 

Then without warning she put her fingers on her son’s wrist 
and was startled at the record. Unfortunately the utmost reso- 
lution does not suffice to control the the pulse -beats. 

“What has happened?” she asked sternly. 

“Just what you suppose,” answered Gilbert, meeting her 
angry glance boldly, though it needed courage ; “mischief Tias 
been brewed ; but Jack, as usual, has had no hand in the decoc- 
tion. It is all my doing. I found him so much better than I 
12 


78 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


expected that I could not rest till Iliad poured all my troubles 
into his bosom. It is the old trick.” 

It often annoyed Mrs. Cartwright to find that even she was not 
altogether proof against the winning charm of Gilbert Yorke’s 
manner : his looks and words appeased her a little in spite of 
herself. 

“I had scarcely thought,” she said grimly, “that the heir of 
Sir Owen Yorke had any troubles to pour forth, or that my son’s 
symiiathy would have been so keen for mere fancies and conceits. 
But,” more gently, “no doubt his weakness has served to 
strengthen it.” 

“Just so,” said John eagerly. “Gilbert was talking about a 
matter in which he is deeply interested — one quite remote from 
any concern of mine ; quite remote, but it grieves me greatly 
because it grieves him. There is no secret in it, mother — we 
were discussing his grandfather’s will. 

“Then we will hope Gilbert will postpone the subject until 
you are yourself again, for which reason it will be desirable 
for him to postpone his visits, since it now as ever impossible 
to trust his discretion. ” 

She spoke in a hard, cold tone, and Gilbert felt himself con-, 
demned and dismissed as lie had done as a boy, and went away. 

When he was gone, Mrs. Cartwright continued to stand 
silently by the table where she had deposited the basin, but in- 
stead of giving it to her son she stirred the contents abstract- 
edly, and with a hand that shook with agitation. 

“ John, ” she said after a while, and with a flush upon her 
cheek that showed how deep her inward perturbation was, 

“ there is a question I never thought to ask my son again : Have 
you told me a lie V” 

For a moment he was silent, and a throb of indignation 
smote him, but when he looked at her his feeling changed. 

“No,” he said, getting up and coming to her side. He hesi- 
tated a little, for she offered no encouragement ; but in si)ite of 
it he put his hand, that still shook a little — for he had been pro- 
foundly moved — on her shoulder. “I have spoken the absolute 
truth, believe me !” 

He paused, wanting to say moi’e — to find some outlet for the 
intolerable yearning of heart that had coiKiuered liim, but he 
could not find words. He feared, too, to betray himself and — 
to be misunderstood. 

In the depths of the mother’s heart there was an intense 


AN UNWELCOME DISCLOSURE. 


179 


response to the feeling that she read in her son’s eyes. But 
slie was fast- bound in the fetters of a life-time, so that expan- 
sion and natural self-disclosure seemed as impossible to her as 
for the lame to walk. 

She withdrew herself gently from John’s hand, and said, in 
the quiet, measured voice which had so often closed his opening 
heart against her : 

•‘I believe you implicitl}" in the letter, but not in the spirit, of 
your assurance. I should be strangely blind if I did not perceive 
that I am not judged worthy of your full confidence. It is a 
deprivation I have suffered all your life; no, we will not dis- 
cuss the subject — it would do no good. ” 

She turned sharply and left the room, afraid of what would 
have been the salvation of each, lest her weakness should betray 
the pain and passion of her heart. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

AN UNWELCOME DISCLOSURE. 

It was not without some hesitation that Mrs. Yorke had ac- 
cepted the invitation to The Chace for her daughter. She was 
by no means deficient in right feeling or a i^roper sense of 
womanly dignity, and she bitterly restjnted the fact that Gilbert 
ha I not come to see them since his return from Vienna. It 
was ouly a matter of decency that he should have communi- 
cated with her in one sense or another in respect to his inten- 
tions under his grandfather’s will. 

The young man was equally aware of his duty, but postponed 
it ajf a thing impossible to discharge, cherishing the hope that 
Margery Denison might yet put it in his power to make his 
obligations easier. 

If he could go to his aunt with the statement that he was en- 
ga^^ed to the girl he had loved from a boy, and for whom he was 
prepared to sacrifice his heirship, his course would be compara- 
tively plain sailing; but so far, as we know, there seemed little 
chance of such help being given him. According, perhaps, to 
the strength and purity of a man’s love is the difficulty of be- 
lieviag that it is powerless to kindle the heart of the woman 
beloved ; and the very directness and simplicity of Gilbert’s 
character seemed to hinder liis comprehension of the more subtle 
individuality of Margery. 


180 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


He went to The Chace on the following day because, painful 
as was the idea of meeting his cousin, he could not see his way 
to neglect Margery’s summons, nor could he endure to lose the 
chance of seeing Margery herself ; but he went with the reso- 
lution fully formed that since he had been thus constrained to 
meet his cousin Philippa, he should tell her the truth — namely, 
that before he had known even of her existence, he had given 
his boyish heart to another 'girl, and that manhood had con- 
firmed the pledge. 

It was, he said to himself, the only honorable thing to do. 

Gilbert was relieved to find himself shown into an empty 
room, the retreating servant murmuring something about letting 
Mrs. Sutherland know that he had arrived, but he was kept 
waiting so long that he began to think she had forgotten her 
duty, and to wonder in what way he should make his presence 
known. He hesitated to ring the bell, knowing the state of 
Mr. Denison’s health and tem^Der, lest the summons might lead 
to enquiry and annoyance. 

There was a piece of embroidery with the needle sticking in 
the silk, on a little table in one corner of the deep recess formed 
by the bay-window, which he took up and examined with the 
critioal faculty he had acquired from his mother, and he was 
still holding it in his hand when at last he heard the door open 
and turned round to face Margery herself. 

“Forgive me,” she said, advancing toward him with out- 
stretched hand and that free grace of movement which was one 
of her most delightful characteristics, “for having kept you 
waiting so long. I wished to see you before any one else saw 
you, and my time is not now at my own disposal. ” 

He had never seen her look so pale and tired before, and had 
never felt the spell of her beautj" more strongly. The weari- 
ness and pallor that would have marred another woman’s face 
served only to add pathos to the potency of hers. She wore a 
white woollen wrapper, and her magnificent hair had been care- 
lessly brushed back from the forehead and loosely plaited in one 
massive braid behind. The mode, adopted for the convenience 
of the sick-room, accentuated the perfect lines of the brow an 
gave a bewitching youthfulness to her appearance. 

“I see — you have, been up all night. Mr. Denison is worse?” 
he asked, and his voice was so finely tuned to the expression of 
the most intimate sympathy that Margeiy, already overwrought, 
turned aside so that he might not see how much it had moved her. 


AN UNWELCOME DISCLOSURE. 


181 


“Yes, but that is nothing. I could sit up for a week and 
thrive upon it, but it is the sight of his sufferings — his mood of 
mind — which disable me. ” She checked a shudder and looked 
at him with a smile. “How is the other invalid, Mr. Cart- 
wright?” 

Gilbert satisfied her on this point. “All’s well that ends 
well,” he added ; “but we should all have found it hard to for- 
give that woman if my cousin’s life or even his limbs had been 
sacrificed to her heedlessness.” 

“ Ah, that is very true ! You do not know, of course, who 
‘that woman’ was?” 

“I do not think John knows himself,” said Gilbert a little 
indifferently. “He goes about tlie world putting his ease and 
comfort, and, as it seems, even life itself, at the service of those 
who need them, without any respect to persons. ” 

Margery smiled. 

“Aud you cannot have known him so long without catching 
the same spirit. I saw that you had Philipa’s work in your 
hand as I entered ; own that it is beautifully done !” 

“It is not amiss,” he returned coldly, “but you forget in what 
school I have been taught.” 

She looked at him wistfully, with eyes that seemed to have 
a new expression of gentleness and pathos. He turned away his 
own lest the feelings she excited should break down his self- 
control, and he did not wish to take an unmanly advantage of 
her present mood of excited sensibility. 

“If you wfish to speak to me again about Philipa, ” he said, 
“ I will listen as I have done before. But my answer will be 
the same. Is it worth while to waste your strength on a fore- 
gone conclusion? You have no strength to waste,” he went on 
anxiously. “Sit down in this comfortable chair and dismiss 
these anxieties ; you have no pity on yourself !” 

“ It is not that ; my strength is equal to any demands, but I 
have never seen deatli, and — we are living under its shadow. In 
this case it is awful ! There are no hopes beyond — not any de- 
sires, even — and, I may say this to you, no consolations of a 
well-spent life to fall back upon. In this lurid light I see things 
differently. Even if one believed, as my poor father professes to 
believe, that we perish utterly, like the beasts of the field, it is 
horrible to leave the world no better than we found it — to be- 
come extinct without the record of one unselfish action !” 

“All this is true,” returned Gilbert, “but do not dwell upon 


182 


PASSING THE LOVE OP WOMEN. 


it too much. Let us comfort ourselves with the hope that our 
human vision is limited, and that on the other side blinded or 
baffled souls are granted some new chance of redemption. You 
make me feel afraid to speak on any other subject when I see 
you like this.” 

“ It would be strange if you saw me otherwise, but it is in 
order to speak on other subjects that I am comev Say whatever 
is on your mind, Gilbert.” 

“I would ask, then, if in these hours of reflection you have 
thought of me more kindly?” he. said. 

'‘I have thought of you constantly,” was her answer, “and 
have examined the case as it stands between us — and another — 
with as strict a, desire to do right as I am capable of. If it were 
a "question of personal sacrifice only — supposing you would ac- 
cept such a thing — I might persuade myself to become your 
wife, and to try to do a wife’s duty without a wife’s love. For- 
give me if I speak with cruel frankness, for it is better to be 
plain. But I should sacrifice not only myself, but you. You 
vv^ould either openly rebel against the limitations of my feeling 
or secretly resent them ; either way it would end in alienation 
and misery. Under these circumstances it would be impossible 
for you to forget that you gave the go-by to a Splendid inheri- 
tance and all the enormous privileges that belong to it, and 
that you had been cheated in the equivalent. No, do not inter- 
rupt me ! I have not done. ” 

“ Only one word ! The argument would be convincing were 
it not based on a false assumption. Once my wife — (God help 
me ! the words set my brain on fire) — you should love me to the 
height of your capacity and my desire. What then?” 

“Ah, there is nothing left,” cried Margery, with a sudden 
burst of impetuosity, “ but to tell you the truth ! There is one 
difficulty that no man, hovv^ever generous or devoted, can over- 
come. I — I am not free to be conquered by your love, or I 
think I must have yielded ” 

She stopped, the warm pallor of face and neck suffused with 
a crimson glow that passed and left her paler than before, and 
her eyes full of a proud shame, downcast before his riveted 
gaze. Then with a suppressed groan he looked away from her. 

“I need not ask if this be true,” he said; “I see that it is 
true. ” * 

He began to walk about the room wrestling with the sense of 
hopeless defeat brought home to him at last. The desire to 


AN UNWELCOME DISCLOSURE. 


183 


know who this other man was — crowned with a blessedness 
above his possible deserts— was a consuming one ; but it would 
have run against the fine grain of his nature to have questioned 
her however indirectly. 

His forbearance, his acceptance, and his evident distress 
touched jVIargery profoundly. She spoke again in a low, troubled 
voice. 

“I want you to understand why I have told you this. It is 
because it would have been a crime to stand by silent and see 
two lives sacrificed in vain. Is it worth while, now, to give 
up everything — for so little?” 

“Everything!” he repeated bitterly. “You have left me 
nothing !” . 

He stopped, then began again : 

“I have not even the right to complain. You see, I have 
always hoped against hope that I should win you in the end ; 
and the blindness of it all, the folly, the madness, whips me 
like scorpions. What a fool you must have thought me ! And 
yet, why did you not tell me sooner?” 

“I think,” she answered in the lowest of tones and with her 
hand shading her face, “ I think I have told you almost as soon 
as I knew myself. The truth has only come to me lately — by 
my poor father’s bedside. I told you I had learnt many things 
there — have learnt this. ” 

He looked at her intently, knowing that her own eyes were 
hidden ; she had never appeared to him so sweet and womanly, 
so infinitely to be desired, as at this moment, when he realised 
that she was lost to him forever. 

“There is one question ” he began, but she interrupted him 

with a little gesture of deprecation. 

“Do not be afraid,” he resumed. “The question I am going 
to ask is not one that you need refuse to answer. Is this man 
worthy ?” 

“Worthy, you mean, of honour and love ? Yes, he is worthy.” 

It was on his lips to question her further, but he forbore. 

“ I will go now, he said, “ lest I should be tempted to say any- 
thing that might hurt or vex you. That is as much as I can 
do ; it is no in me to wish you happiness — elsewhere. Mine has 
been cut down at the root, and I can feel nothing but the insuf- 
ferable smart. You have never understood, Margery, how I 
have loved you. ” 

“I know, I know, ” she said humbly. “It would have been 


0 


184 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


hard to have done you justice. I almost hate myself that I 
have not been able to give you what you wanted.” 

He had turned to depart, when a sudden thought struck him. 

“Was it this,” he asked sharply, “that you wished to say 
‘before I saw any one else?’ Was it the better to fit me for pay- 
ing my respects to my cousin?” 

“ No, ” she said, rousing herself to her task with some effort, 
for she was tired and exhausted. “I never meant to let my 
secret escape me, but I wfill not ^mind if only it seems to help 
the object I have in view. Do not go !” 

She hesitated, fearing to lose her object through maladroitness 
or persistency, and yet painfully aware that the present oppor- 
tunity was probably the last that would be given her. A look 
of hardness, too, had come into Gilbert’s face that discouraged 
her. 

“It is of no consequence,” he said, “that you should take the 
trouble to explain your purpose, for at any rate it is frustrated. 
I shall see no one else under your roof — perhaps at any time — 
certainly not to-day. With your leave, Margery, I will go.” 

“You must not go,” she pleaded, “before you have seen your 
cousin Philipa. She knows that you are in the house and will 
take it very unkindly, and you must know even better than I 
how tender and sensitive she is.” 

“ It will be necessary, ” he answered with sternness quite new 
to him, “ that my cousin Philipa should learn to expect nothing 
from me.” 

“You mean that you are still resolutely bent on disinheriting 
yourself — and her? It may seem so at this moment, but other 
thoughts will come — cooler and more kind. Gilbert, have we 
ceased to be friends? Will you not grant one request to the 
woman for whom you have been willing to forego — I will say 
nothing of fortune — but you have told her even life itself?” 

His eyes fiashed. “You are taking an unfair advantage of 
our position ! For the woman to make requests at the very 
moment that she has robbed me of the hope that was more even 
than the life I offered her, is not only ungenerous but cruel ! 
Yes, Margeiy, we have ceased to be friends — I could not bear 
it.” 

“ Then you leave me miserable beyond any power to console ! 
I shall wish that I had never crossed your path, though in that 
case I should have missed the chief of the sunshine that has 
fallen on mine ! Go, if you will, in this spirit, but before you 


AN UNWELCOME DISCLOSURE. 


185 


go ask yourself if it is not as hard for me to have the friend- 
ship which has been the pride and joy of iny life thrown con- 
temptuously behind your back as for you to be refused — what I 
cannot give?” 

This touched him. 

“ I do not know, ” he said restlessly. “ I am not able to weigh 
the unponderable, nor to argue about spirit and flame as you do ! 
But, ” looking at her as if afraid to trust himself, “ what task 
did you want to set me?” 

“ Such a task as a temper like yours will find it impossible, 
on reflection, to refuse. I want to engage you not to bar my 
own way to a possible happiness nor to break your cousin’s 
heart. Understand ! I do not speak in figures. Philipa ex- 
plains your avoidance of her by dislike and contempt, and the 
pain and shame of it is killing her. ” 

“ I will undeceive her on that point, ” he said gently, “ though 
not to-day . I will tell her the simple truth and she will hold 
me justified. ” 

“ You will kill her all the same, for her life is so frail it will 
never bear the shock of that disclosure ! Do not make any 
mistake in this matter ! It is a question of right or wrong, not 
of mere choice or rejection. Circumstances, however hard they 
may be, have made you responsible not only for the happiness 
of this girl, but for her very existence : and you will be guilty 
of a crime if you refuse, out of consideration for yourself, to 
fulfil your duty toward her. No, I will not admit your dis- 
claimers. You are free and able to do this thing. I feel all the 
ungraciousness of these words from my mouth, but I dare not 
go back to my father and leave them unspoken. ” 

“ And you can seriously propose to me as a duty to hoodwink 
my cousin, lying to her against my own heart and conscience, 
and to marry her under false pretences ! The point you have 
forgotten to take into account is what will happen when her 
awakening comes.” 

“ There is to be no such dishonesty and no deceit, ” cried Mar- 
gery with indignant energy. “I would not have Philipa 
cheated by a hair’s breadth ! Is it not possible for you to re- 
assure her mind to day by showing her just the same kindness 
you have always shown her? Keep the secret of our relations 
until she is grown stronger in health and confident in your af- 
fection ; it will not hurt her sweet humility to take the second 
place in your regard, and as to the ‘awakening’, that will be to 


186 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


a better and nobler life — aye, and love too — than you and I 
should ever reach together. ’■ 

He shook his head. “I cannot do it — it is beyond me ! Years 
hence, perhaps, when I have grown callous, if that time ever 
comes, only then it will be too late for your purpose. Margery, 
you have hit upon a refinement of cruelty. For you to plead for 
Philipa hardens my heart against her.” 

“I know! I know! But what can I do? I have seen her 
every hour of the day, and I can read her heart. Dear, it is 
just this : you cannot have what is wanted, but you can give 
just this to another, and in so doing will heal your own wound. 
Do not laugh at hearing Margery Denison preaching magna- 
namity : it will come easy to you, for you drank it in with your 
mother’s milk,” 

“ No, I had never that ! I can only be good to those I love — 
to none others. I should be a bad husband to Philipa and 
should break her heart, only a little later. But then I should 
have secured Rookhurst !” He spoke with intense bitterness. 

Margery sighed, it must be owned, a little impatiently. 

“ I must go back to my father, ” she said, “ or he will be ask- 
ing for me, but I cannot go back beaten at all points. Give me 
a little comfort to take with me. Promise me this small thing 
if you refuse the greater : be kind* to Philipa ; explain your 
neglect by your illness or as you .will and if you will give no 
pledges at least enter into no disclosures for a month or two. 
Is this too much for you to grant?” 

“ It is too much for you to ask, ” was his answer, “ but I yield 
as I would yield a limb or my life to serve you ! Only I cannot 
see Philipa under your roof. ” 

“That is already arranged. She goes home next week. I 
would not keep her here under the present depressing influences. 
But — you will consent to see her to-day? Dear, do not think 
me heartless. She is watching and waiting and listening for 
her summons. I told her this visit was for her. If you leave 
the house without seeing her, it will be useless to follow her to 
Mirables. But I see — I need say no more. God bless you, dear, 
dearest of friends !” 

Her face was fluslicd with a noble ardour and she held out 
both her hands* to him. Gilbert grasped them hard and looked 
at her with despairing eyes, from which hope and appeal were 
vanished. It seemed to draw her heart tovrard him' with the 
yearning protectiye affection he had always inspired, and as a 


THE MINISTER RECEIVES A PETITIONER. 18 ? 

sudden reminiscence flashed across her mind she leaned toward 
him, and would have touched his forehead with her lips, but 
he drew back sharply. 

“ Not that !” he said ; “I could not bear it !” 

He dropped her hands and turned away to the window, nor 
did he look round till he had heard the door open and shut, and 
knew that he was alone. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

THE YOUNG MINISTER RECEIVES A PETITIONER. 

A FEW days later John Cartwright was sitting at his writing 
table in his bedroom, which now served the purpose of his study, 
l^reparing his Sunday’s sermon, when a servant knocked at the 
door to say that a lady had called and wished to see him. 

The circumstance was not an unusual one. The social and 
religious organizations in connection with Castle Street Chapel 
were in a high state of activity, and the young minister was 
the favorite referee of the workers in his flock in any case of 
difficultjS or, indeed, as he *was sometimes inclined to think, 
where no difficulty existed. 

John rose with a sigh ; he was just warming to his work and 
the interruption was unwelcome. He knew that the probability 
was he would be confronted with some Sunday-school teaclier 
or missionary collector, whose business might have been better 
discussed at the weekly class- meeting. 

“You are quite sure that the lady asked for me and not for 
my mother?” he said with an instinctive struggle toward self- 
preservation. 

The maid was quite sure ; besides, the mistress was out ; and 
then slie added : 

“The lady w^as Miss Denison of The Chace. ” 

John stooped over his books. “Say I will be with her 
directly. ” 

He sat for full five minutes with his face in his hands, wait- 
ing till his power of will had reduced the fierce beatings of his 
heart and given him back his self-control. It w^as perhaps this 
exercise of mastery that gave an unfamiliar air of dignity to 
his manner, and seemed to obliterate his usual social aw^kward 
ness when he entered the room. 


188 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


Margery was sitting in his mother’s chair, slowly swaying 
herself to and fro ; the vision thus presented had an element of 
household allurement in it that worked like a gratuitous test to 
his endurance. Her attire always seemed to him to possess a 
sort of imperial elegance ; but his experience on such points wag 
limited, and Margery was one of those women who do not so 
much borrow effects from their clothes as bestow them. But his 
next glance showed him she was looking pale and weary. 

“ I am sorry, ” he said, slightly touching the hand she had 
extended as she rose to meet him, “that my mother is not at 
home, since you have done her the honour to call.” 

There was so great a restraint in his manner as to produce, in 
the mind of the girl he addressed, a chill sense of alarm until 
reflection suggested the obvious and encouraging explanation. 
She smiled a little faintly, for her spirits were greatly depressed 
and her energy at a low ebb. 

“ I should have been glad to have seen Mrs. Cartwright, but my 
business is with you. I will explain it at once, lest we might 
be interrupted. My father, as perhaps you know, is very ill. 
I mean that the end is not far off, and his state of mind is that 
of blank, utter unbelief. Tins makes his sister, my dear aunt, 
so miserable that she has tried again and again to argue with 
him — with the very worst results. He will not allow her now 
to enter his room. In this emergency she has sent me to you. 
She thinks that perhaps you would see him. ” 

“Would Mr. Denison consent to see me?” 

“Ido not know. We thought it best to get your promise to 
come before we suggested the idea. Will you come if I am so 
happy as to be able to send you a message?” 

John stood thinking profoundly, with his eyes on the ground. 

“If you send for me I will come,” he said, looking up, “be- 
cause no sense of unworthiness can excuse a man from the at- 
tempt to do his duty. But this seems to me a sort of spiritual 
forlorn hope ; and I would urgently beg that some one better 
qualified by age and standing — some one more acceptable, nat- 
urally — than I can be to Mr. Denison, should be chosen. ” 

“My i^oor father has long alienated the clergy of Copplestone, 
if your words point to them, Mr. Cartwright. There is not one 
with whom he has not some quarrel, more or less personal, or 
that he would consent to admit to his bedside. It is because of 
your youth and the absence of all clerical assumption on your 
part that my aunt hopes for a better reception !” 


THE MINISTER RECEIVES A PETITIONER. 189 


She waited, but as he still continued silent, she repeated her 
question : 

“If we send for you, may we depend on your coming?” 

“ I cannot refuse to do so, though I confess I would escape the 
ordeal if I dared. I shall come. Miss Denison,” he continued 
with his grave smile, “like the shepherd -boy of the East, with 
my sling and a few pebbles from the brook ; but it will be to 
contend against a more formidable antagonist, and my faith is 
too feeble to hope for victory. ” 

“And yet I should have thought from your sermons and from 
wdiat I hear of you, that your belief was so firmly established 
as to enable you to give a conclusive answer to all objections 
and cavillings, however erudite.” 

He smiled. “Then you are very much mistaken. There is 
not a single branch of knowledge or human experience concern- 
ing which a child may not be able to perplex a philosopher, 
much more a man of Mr. Denison’s calibre ; and in regard to be- 
lief or disbelief in the Christian religion, I do not suppose any 
sceptic yet w^as converted by argument, quite apart from the 
impossibility of dispassionate discussion with a dying man.” 

Margery opened wide her beautiful eyes. 

“ Pardon me, but in that case what inducement have you to try ?” 

“ I should not presume to try to argue about the evidences of 
our faith, because I do not believe that the mere external testi- 
mony of history will ever produce conviction until the man has 
already been made responsive to the idea of his need of redemp- 
tion. I think this sense of need is inherent in human nature, 
be that nature what it may, and however strenuously it may be 
denied or stamped out. It is the final verdict of experience 
that faith in Christ is the outcome, not of the intellect, but of 
that spiritual apprehensiveness w^hich is as absolute and author- 
itative as reason itself.” 

“I think,” said Margery, in a tone of intense feeling, “that 
to be redeemed from himself is the most passionate desire of my 
poor father’s soul, though, no doubt, he would rather die than 
confess it. But I own, Mr. Cartwright, even if one accepts 
your theory, that it seems to me quite as hard to produce this 
responsive attitude of mind as intellectual conviction itself.” 

John hesitated and colored. “I feel painfully,” was his an- 
swer, “ how the deep things of religion suffer through the perils 
of human expression. But we work under the inspiration of 
One whose strength fortifies our weakness. Do you think I 


190 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


would dai’e to face Mr. Denison otherwise? I am very much 
afraid of him.” 

“Did you ever speak to him?” she asked in some surjnise. 

“ Never. But I once heard him speak to my cousin Gilbert on 
the first occasion that I ever saw you.” 

“Oh!” she cried eagerly, and with a vivid blush, “I beseech 
you to. forget that incident ! The recollection of ][it covers me 
with shame. Believe that since those days I at least have grown 
in — in knowledge of the world — in independence of mind — 

in ” She stopped short. An invincible confusion made the 

words drag on her tongue. John, too, was looking at her with 
an expression that she could not quite define ; it seemed elo- 
quent of feeling, but of feeling so complex and veiled that it 
filled her with a vague apprehension. 

“I am the last to whom tliat assurance is necessary,” he said. 
“I carry in my mind, too exact a remembrance of your gene- 
rous kindness on the occasion when — when we met last. ” 

“Have you kept our secret?” slie asked with a charming 
archness. 

In spite of himself, he could not help smiling back into the 
loveh" face. 

“I thought that you would prefer that I sliould. One does not 
care to make public such an experience as that.” 

The color deepened in her cheek. 

“You mean that even your mother does not know?” 

“There seemed to me no reason that she should ; I think, Miss 
Denison, we will agree never to allude to the subject again. ” 

Her eyes dwelt upon him witli a secret, shy pleasure. The 
very reserve and deference of his manner, the implications that 
she attached to his words, soothed and j^et animated her mind. 
Was it likely, indeed, that this man, obscure and unattracti\ e, 
whom by a sort of womanly perversity she had chosen to love, 
would be able to resist that influence to which so many had 
yielded, even amongst those wliose experience was so much 
wider and more brilliant? 

“That shall be as you please,” was her answer, “after to-day. 
I have rebelled against the hindianctes which juevented my ful- 
filling my promise to call upon your mother, but I trusted your 
fidelity ; even though appearances were against me, I knew you 
would not think me ungrateful.” 

“You not onl} discharged your debt on the spot, ” he said 
gravely, “ but reversed the obligation. ” 


THE MINISTER RECEIVES A PETITIONER. 191 


‘‘Ah, you set too much value on the cuiTent coin of thanks; 
but aiiOLit yourself : are you sure you are quite recovered from 
the shock — that no mischief has resulted? I thought — excuse 
me — that you looked a little paler and thinner when you came 
in.” 

John did not answer at once ; he was looking not at the 
speaker but straight before him, as if in search of the hardihood 
of which he stood in need, and as he faced the garden he saw 
his mother approaching the house, and the next moment he 
heard the click of the opening gate. 

His cheek, which justified Margery’s remark, flushed a little, 
and an unspoken thanksgiving swelled his heart ; his un- 
practised fortitude had been enduring too severe a test. 

He turned to his visitor with a brightening eye and a look of 
relief. 

“I see my mother. Miss Denison — she is just coming in. She 
will be proud to make your acquaintance. ” 

Margery made a cliarming little gesture of deprecation. 

“There is no escape, but, like yourself, I have my weaknesses; 
and one of them is a wholesome fear of your mother. How- 
ever, I will do my best. ” 

The best was perfect. The graceful deference of her manner 
disarmed Mrs. Cartwright’s sensitive anxiety, which had taken 
ready alarm on finding her son tete-a-tete with so great a lady, 
and the object of her visit, which Margery hastened to explain, 
with the implied recognition of that son’s spiritual worth, 
brought to the mother’s heart the purest joy of which it was 
susceptible. 

The sweetness of the girl’s courtesy was contagious. John 
watched his mother with a grateful surprise. She spoke of Mr. 
Denison with a chastened sympath}" that he could scarcely have 
supposed possible, and offered the hospitalit}^ of tlieir early din- 
ner as an equivalent for luncheon, with a cordiality so winning 
that Margery was sorely tempted to avail herself of it. 

“I should like so much to stay,” she said, “but I dare not. 
I have been absent from liome some time now, and my father 
will miss me. I am so happy as to feel at last that I am of 
some use to him. ” 

“At last!” repeated Mrs. Cartwright, looking at her w^th a 
smile that pleased Margery better than the most elabomte of 
compliments, and then she added with a consideration for which 
her son blessed her : 


192 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMAN. 


“ But, my dear young lady, you must not let your zeal outrim 
your discretion. I am an old nurse myself, and can read pretty 
well the story of your pale cheeks and tired eyes. Sick people 
grow selfish, unless they are saints indeed, and it is the truest 
kindness to deny them in order to serve them better. ” 

Margery rose to go, explaining that she had left her carriage 
in the town at The Stukely Arms, in order that their old coach- 
man, in whom her aunt had much greater confidence than in 
herself, might fulfil certain commissions. 

“ Then you will allow John to walk down with you and see 
you in safe-keeping?” 

There w^as obviously no alternative, and the walk formed an 
era in the yoimg man’s life ; he had never walked by the side 
of a beautiful woman before, and this woman he secretly adored, 
so that the present rapture held despair at bay. Then she talked 
to him delightfully, not of himself, for that was torture, but of 
his mother, praising and admiring with a gracious sincerity and 
discrimination which were sweet to his ears. When she again 
fell back on the subject of her father, he discovered in all she 
said a nobleness and self-devotion for which he had always 
given her credit, in common with all other gifts and graces, 
but which, at the same time, it was the greatest comfort to 
him to see manifested beyond all controversy. 

Her last words were, as she seated herself in the carriage ; 

“ Hold yourself in readiness for my summons ; they will 
surely come !” 


CHAPTER XXXH. 

“regarded as a friend.” 

John Cartwright did receive his summons to The Chace, but 
it was to advise and console Mrs. Sutherland under the deep 
distress of mind she experienced at the sudden and unexpected 
termination of her brother’s long illness. Cyril Denison died 
on the evening of the day of Margery’s visit to Elm Lodge. 

He had been slowly wearing toward death for the last ten 
years, and more actively dying for as many months, and yet 
whe« the end came it came as a surprise ; but it is the experi 
ence of humanity that however watched and waited for the 
King of Terrors always comes upon us unawares. 

Mrs. Sutherland, weak and emotional, and long tried by her 


“regarded as a friend.” 193 

brother’s tyranny, had lately turned for solace to the excite- 
ments and consolations of religion as presented by the double 
pastorate of Castle Street Chapel, and her first impulse “when 
all was over,” was to send to John Cartwright, and discuss with 
him the agonizing probabilities of her brother’s future state. 

Margery, who was present at the interview, but scarcely 
spoke, received a deep impression of his patience, tenderness, 
and wisdom. The inconsequence of her aunt’s mind was to 
herself a constant provocation, and she thought it had never 
appeared under a more trying form. She appealed to the young 
minister with a sort of querulous persistence, as if the secrets 
of the unknown and the unrevealed world either were or should 
be open to his ken, and she invested him with the power of 
emphatic decision on the points of her pathetic anxiety. 

Under the pressure of her distress, her faculties were unusually 
confused, and she would repeat under another form the same 
enquiry to which he had already returned an answer, to find it 
met with the same sympathetic patience and forbearance. 

When he rose at last to go away, Mrs. Sutherland begged him 
to return soon, assuring him what a comfort he had been to her. 
She confided to him all their family affairs, telling him that 
they had no one to undertake for them. The heir was in Africa, 
and they were not on good terms ; her poor brother had quarreled 
with the family solicitors, and she did not really know where to 
turn for advice ; she and her niece would be leaving The Chace, 
perhaps the neighborhood ; “ if he would allow her to look upon 
him in the light of a friend.” 

John acquiesced. His personal desire was to avoid Margery 
as an element of peril and unrest in a life he was bound to keep 
calm and ordered, but his principle of action was to help those 
who claimed help. 

In bidding him good-bye, Margery said : 

“ I am far more unhappy, Mr. Cartwright, than if my father 
and I had been like other fathers and daughters. There is some- 
thing hopeless in the knowledge that you have missed the nat- 
ural chances and joys of life.” 

The tone and manner were intensely sad and dejected, and 
she looked pale and worn with watching. John’s own experience 
confirmed her words, though a feeling of loyalty held back the 
open expression of sympathy, but there was a look in his eyes 
that told of an intimate comprehension. 

“ I see you understand, ” she said softly, “ though it can scarcely 
13 


194 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


be of your own knowledge. ” Then she added, “ You will like to 
know ; I was with him when he died ; it was a gentle dismis- 
sal — as calm as the falling asleep of a child. I thank God there 
were no terrors, and alas ! there were no last words. ” Her eyes 
brimmed. Perhaps you would not believe it, but no girl has ever 
lived a more desolate life than I. I had no mother, and have 
always been — alone.” 

“If the offer of any help I can render is not presumption,” 
was his answer, “ use it as it seems good to you. ” 

As if to increase the difficulties of his situation, Mrs Cart- 
wright had received a strong impression in Margery’s favour, 
and was eager to be of service as soon as she knew that service 
would be welcomed. 

The circumstances of the ladies at The Chace were an open 
secret. Mr Denison had died heavily in debt, and his quarrel 
with the heir had been so gratuitous and thankless that nothing 
was to be expected from his liberality. 

Margery inherited the two hundred pounds that had been 
settled on her mother, so that she was spared the pain of abso- 
lute dependence upon her aunt, and they were both anxious to 
rid themselves of the responsibilities of a big house as soon as 
possible, and to take one more suited for their means. Travel 
had been suggested at first, but the plan was postponed by mut- 
ual consent. Martin Cartwright was the owner of considerable 
property in the neighborhood of Copplestone, and Mrs Suther- 
land had thought proper to take him into consultation about 
their affairs. Amongst other investments he had recently bought 
a pretty, old-fashioned house, standing in half an acre of garden 
that was quite capable of being improved into a desirable abode. 
It was situated on the Sea Moor Road, half-way between The 
Chace and Copplestone, and had been offered by the wealthy 
draper to the two ladies, on the most advantageous terms. It 
would take a month or two to put in thorough repair, but then 
Margery had received a kind letter from the absent heir, begging 
her to retain the use of The Chace as long as it suited her con- 
venience, and assuring her that he was prepared to act at all 
points as a kinsman should. ^ 

The result of all this was to bring John and Margery fre- 
quently together, and to establish a recognized friendship be- 
tween them that he at least had never believed possible. 

Margery brightened and sweetened under the influence, for 
so entire was his devotion to her service, whether it took the 


MRS. YOYKE PRESENTS THE SITUATION. 195 

form of practical help in their affairs, or willingness to discuss 
any question in which she was interested, that she never guessed 
that each occasion when they met, was in fact, an act of re- 
nunciation. 

To see her constantly under this aspect of delightful friendli- 
ness was to fan the flame of his passion, and to add to the 
stringency of the struggle by w^hich he tried to keep it under 
control. He felt himself no more justified in refusing her be- 
hests than those of any other woman to whom it was possible 
for him to be useful ; but there were times when he sat alone in 
his room at night, that the remembrance of the light in Mar- 
gery’s eyes, or of some happy phrase that had fallen from her 
lips, or of the recent touch of her hand, wrought upon him al 
most to the point of physical torture. Once in a moment of un- 
usual weakness he had suffered his mind to rest upon the idea of 
her loving him in return — not as a possibility, but as a dream 
— until his strong swarthy face glowed and softened into posi- 
tive beauty, and for a few delirious moments he tasted that fine 
rapture which happy lovers know. 

His deep-rooted conviction still was that Margery, while deny- 
ing the fact to herself as well as to others, really loved Gilbert 
Yorke, and that her rejection was based partly on a curious 
blindness, but mainly on the generous grounds of her reluctance 
to rob him of his inheritance, and to traverse Philipa’s interests. 

It is scarcely necessary to say that this notion invested Mar- 
gery with that element of high-souled disinterestedness without 
which the young minister could have found less justification for 
his love, while at the same time it stood between him and any 
possible apprehension of the real state of her feelings. He trans- 
lated every tone and touch of kindness — and they were many — 
either to the glow and warmth of her own Hee nature, or to 
the special favour shown to him because he had the privilege 
of being the chosen friend of Gilbert Yorke. 

CHAPTER XXXIH. 

MRS. YORKE PRESENTS THE SITUATION. 

It was greatly to the credit of Gilbert Yorke ’s powers of self- 
control and sweetness of disposition that he 'played his part so 
well in the interview with his cousin Philipa, which succeeded 


196 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


the painful passage between himself and Margery, that the girl 
never suspected how much the effort cost him. 

She came into the room, where he awaited her after a long in- 
terval, which he owed doubtless to the consideration of Margery, 
and her own embarrassment had been so painful that his first 
desire had been to put her at her ease. He could not help talk- 
ing kindly to an old friend, and especially when that friend 
looked so pale and fragile as Philipa. He knew, too, that the 
infiuence of her home-life made her morbidly shy and self-dis- 
trustful, and perceived that on this occasion she seemed in act- 
ual terror of what he might be going to say. So by mutual 
.consent they touched only the surface of things, he telling her 
about his recent illness, in which she seemed greatly interested, 
and asking for news of her mother and brother, with the affec- 
tionate, sympathetic ease which had marked their relations 
from the first. 

Philipa revived under this treatment : the sight of her cousin 
alone was like water in the desert, for the secret thirst to see 
him had long been consuming the springs of health and vigour, 
and the one subject that she dreaded him to approach was that 
in which their mutual fate was implicated. She had never 
dared to indulge the hope of a blessedness beyond the dreams of 
poetry and romance until she knew that if he passed her over he 
passed over at the same time that which might have made any 
man hesitate, and her humility was such that she would have 
accepted gratefully a tithe of the love that she bestowed. To sit 
in the light of his countenance, to hear and to serve him would 
almost have satisfied her. She had always felt a painful sense of 
inferiority ; but now as she timidly marked the improvement in 
Gilbert’s appearance, the increased distinction and manliness 
of his bearing added to the old -remembered charm, it lay upon 
her heart like a stone. 

Therefore it was no disappointment, but with the sense of a 
prisoner whose sentence is deferred, that she found that her 
cousin met her on the same friendly footing as before, and was 
not alienated by the cruel restriction of their grandfather’s will. 
He told her that he was going away for two or three weeks for 
change of air, but that immediately on his return he should 
come and see them at Fair Lawns, and he sent kind messages to 
his aunt and to Edward. 

It was with an intense anxiety that Margery had watched for 
her after Gilbert’s departure, but Philipa ’s shining eyes and 


MRS. YORKE PRESENTS THE SITUATION. 


197 


sweet smile set her heart at rest. She forebore to question her, 
but the girl’s heart was too full not to overflow. 

“He was so kind and good,” she said — “just the same as 
ever. He is coming to us as soon as he returns from abroad. ” 

Philipa still used the primitive expression ; she herself had 
never stirred out of England. 

“Where is he going?” asked Margery with secret anxiety. 

“ To Leipzig ;” and then she added, with deep seriousness, 
“Margery, you have known so many people, did you ever know 
any one like him?” 

Margery stooped, and framing the small sweet face in her 
hands, kissed ker on the lips and forehead. 

“ Never dear ! There is but one Gilbert Yorke in the world, 
and he was born to make you happy. ” 

Her conscience smote her as she spoke ; it seemed like taking 
advantage of the man who had behaved so well at such a crisis, 
and she saw that Philipa ’s eyes brimmed and sank, and that 
she blushed with painful intensity. 

“We will not speak of that,” said the girl. “ If he were born 
for me, it is a very poor destiny. ” 

Philipa dreaded her return home, but there was no alternative 
under the circumstances of Mr. Denison’s approaching dissolu- 
tion. The close questioning she had expected from her mother 
and the gibes and sneers of Edward had to be endured, but she 
found them more intolerable even than she had feared. It was 
surely unreasonable that Mrs. Yorke should cherish a lively dis- 
pleasure against her nephew, but her open threat that if he did 
not come according to the promise that Philipa reported, she 
should write and demand an explanation of his intentions, 
threw the poor girl into an agony of apprehension. 

It became one of the petitions in her daily prayers that Gil- 
bert should keep his promise, and spare her the shame of’ this 
appeal. 

But Gilbert had every intention of keeping his word. He had 
gone to Leipzig as to a place endeared to his memory, and with 
the unacknowledged feeling that if so cruel a wound as his could 
be soothed, the balm was more likely to be found there than 
anywhere else — the first evening he spent amongst new pupils 
and old masters at the Conservatoire confirming this belief. 

He did more than this. For the few days which followed his 
interviews with Margery and with his cousin, he had contented 
to weigh the possibility of accepting Sir Owen’s will, and with 


198 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


it the role of a life-long sacrifice. But the constitutional con- 
centration of his character, the personal passion he threw into 
every detail of life, made the idea specially obnoxious. Men of 
wider interests and of a less eager temper might more easily 
have reconciled themselves to a loveless marriage ; but it repre- 
sented to Gilbert Yorke the degradation of his integrity and of 
his manhood, and so soon as the glamour of his art caught him, 
the old ambition revived and clinched his conviction. 

Surely it was enough for the woman who refused him to com- 
pass her own happiness without dictating the terms of his bond- 
age ; he was doing no wrong to Philipa for no word beyond 
kind, cousinly feeling had ever passed his lips, nor did he be- 
lieve (but here his conscience pricked him) that her regard 
was warmer than his own. Nor was she a girl who would deplore 
the loss of wealth and position ; rather her desire would be to 
escape such a burden, and the modest fortune which his rejec- 
tion would secure her was adequate to meet her simple wants. 

Therefore, difficult as the task would be, he would go straight 
to his aunt on his return, and demonstrate to her that he could 
not marry his cousin. He would not spare his pride, but tell 
her that the only woman he could ever wish to make his wife 
would not have him, and that in his view a life-long celibacy 
was the alternative. 

When he reached London after a month’s absence, he delib- 
erated as to whether he should run down to Yorkshire and take 
John into his confidence before going to Fair Lawns. He was 
aware of Mr. Denison’s death and of Mrs. Sutherland’s plans, for 
his cousin was always a faithful correspondent, and held the boy- 
ish engagement of supplying him with all the information in his 
power concerning Margery Denison as still binding — the personal 
difficulty of doing so making the obligation rather the more 
than the less imperative. 

But Gilbert gave up the notion. He was eager to get through 
what he knew would be a very unpleasant and difficult business, 
that would perhaps be more painful to himself than to any one 
else, and he was not sure what view of his duty John Cartwright 
might take. He would see him when all was over, and he was 
a free man, if a disappointed one. 

He found the household, at Fair Lawns under a cloud. Fair 
Lawns was a pretty place, but it stood low, and the house was 
too closely surrounded with shurbs and trees. The river which 
ran under willow banks at the bottom of the gardens was a 


MRS. YORKE PRESENTS THE SITUATION. 


199 


charming object in spring and summer, but was apt to be de- 
pressing and miasmic in autumn. Mrs. Yorke was barely con- 
valescent from an attack of bronchitis, which she attributed to 
her surroundings, and the young baronet’s health and temper 
were both at their worst. 

The aunt’s reception of her nephew indicated an armed neu- 
trality, and so irksome did Gilbert find the condition of things 
that he had no recourse but to devote himself to -Tnilipa through 
the long evening that follow^ed his arrival. He had suggested 
the piano to her, though he knew she was a poor musician, and 
had produced his violin, when, his own ardour being enough 
for him, he had played divinely some of his recent Leipzig ac- 
quisitions. The girl had no faculty of musical comprehension, 
but the proposal gave her full liberty to watch the performer and 
served to add a little fresh fuel to the fiame of her innocent love. 
The diversion was finally stopped by a peremptory protest from 
Edward’s chamber. 

“The sound of a fiddle,” he said, “was one of the many 
hings he could not endure. It tore him in two !” 

On tlie following morning Gilbert asked for an interview with 
his aunt, feeling that he had never realised the extreme awk- 
wardness of the situation until he found himself face to face 
with that cold and august personage. Nevertheless, he fulfilled 
his task of explanation as best he could, well assured from Mrs. 
Yorke ’s aspect that however inadequate it had been at some 
points he had succeeded in making clear his refusal to accept 
the conditions of his grandfather’s will. 

For a few moments she sat silent ; then lifting her fine blue 
eyes from the ground, she looked at him steadily and said : 

“It is now six months since Sir Owen’s death ; will you kind- 
ly explain to me how it is that you have not made your in- 
tentions known to me before? During that period every one 
has regarded my daughter in the light of your future wife, and 
the poor child has the same impression. You were bound, as a 
man of honour, if it was your intention from the beginning to 
repudiate this will, to have communicated the fact to your law- 
yers and to mine without loss of time. As the case now 
stands — — ” 

“You forget! I was very ill — so ill as to know nothing till 
long after ” 

She interrupted him. “ I admit there was a delay of a few 
weeks, not longer. Sir Owen died in June, and you were at 


200 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


Rookhurst in July. Your behaviour was so extraordinary that 
I asked Mr. Percival what conclusion I was to draw from it ; 
and his answer was, as the young man was a gentleman, it 
could be understood only in one way — that he accepted his in- 
heritance on the terms offered. The bequest in our eyes was an 
act of cruel injustice. Do you propose to add to the wrong you 
have done the brother the still greater wrong of rejecting the 
sister? If so, you deliberately subvert the intentions of the tes- 
tator.” She spoke without passion, in a cold incisive tone, 
that seemed to make the arguments with which he had fortified 
his decision poor and inadequate. 

“ I act in this way, ” he answered, “ because I believe that 
Philipa cares as little about fortune as I do myself, and that 
even if she cared more, she would not consent to take for her 
husband a man who does not love her. I feel sure she would 
honour uiy motives and would set me free. I feel for her as a 
brother might feel, and I think her affection for me is of the 
same sort. May I explain myself to her?” 

“ That is a matter for future consideration. If I have under- 
stood you aright, your first point of explanation will l^e that 
you are in love with somebody else. That might present more 
difficulty if the lady in question were in love with you ; but you 
also tell me, with admirable candour, that she has rejected your 
addresses. I know not,” Mrs. Yorke added in a lower tone, 
“ what woman of honour would have done otherwise under these 
circumstances i ^ 

These words startled Gilbert, once more raising the passion- 
ate doubt in his mind whether the last avowal by which Mar- 
gery had silenced his suit might not have been prompted by some 
extravagance of generosity rather than by the truth. 

“It is true that I have been rejected,” was his answer, “but 
that does not alter the case. I shall love her till the last hour of 
my life, and, therefore, I refuse to marry — elsewhere.” 

“ But that decision is not open to you — at least as a man of 
honour. When Sir Owen signed his egregious will it was under 
the intention that the wrong done to Edward should be redressed 
to Philipa. He knew that my poor little girl, who has seen 
nothing of the world, was fond of you and would be willing to 
be the means of enriching you. If you refuse to fulfil the con- 
tract it will not only be robbing her of what her grandfather 
meant her to enjoy, but will be offering her personally an in- 


MRS. YORKE PRESENTS THE SITUATION. 


201 


suit that — can be offered with impunity because she has no one 
to defend her except a woman and a cripple. ” 

*‘I think,” he said, shrinking, “you might, in justice have 
spared me that. ” 

“ I will spare you nothing of the truth, for to keep it back 
would only be to lay up remorse for you in the future. For six 
months I have seen my child growing thinner and paler under 
the strain of hope deferred. It is hard for a mother to confess 
this, but I have no alternative. You know how frail her health 
is, but she can bloom and expand in the sunshine. Since she 
came back from The Chace, she has been another creature ; this 
morning, last night, she was radiant. I believe, though no 
complaint will ever pass her lips, and she will deny her love to 
her last breath, that if you deal her this blow of repudiation 
she will sink under it. You will then have completed your 
work. ” She paused with no simulated emotion and added : 
Is it worth while — to forego Rookhurst as well as break a girl’s 
heart?” 

He made no reply, but she could see that her words were tell- 
ing, and hastened to strike again where the iron was hot. 

“The question narrows itself to this,” she said quietly ; “are 
you going to write yourself large in the eyes of the world as 
something quite otherwise than a man of honour?” 

“ Oh, if you knew how little I care for the world and its judg- 
ments !” he returned passionately. “ It is to myself that I justify 
myself ! I should cause my cousin more suffering by marrying 
than by leaving her, even if it be as you say. I know my own 
limitations — I could not feign fondness — I should be a bad hus- 
band to the wife I did not love. ” 

Mrs. Yorke’s face flushed with anger. She rose impatiently 
and then sat down again ; hitherto she had been very temperate, 
but now her voice shook with passion as she answered : 

“You mean me to understand that this is your ultimatum? 
You have the matchless effrontery to come to my house and tell 
me, in the face of all that I have confessed to you, that you 
would rather beggar yourself and your cousin than marry her? 
It is not to be borne !” 

“What can I do otherwise?” asked Gilbert in distress. “To 
whom else should I have come? It is hard and cruel — I hate 
myself for what I have been compelled to say. I am bitterly 
sorry, but — I see no other way. ” 


202 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


She looked at his pale, set face, marked the sensitive vibra- 
tions of his voice, and felt that all was not yet lost. 

“Gilbert,” she said, “let me speak to you as a mother. You 
are in the first heat of a young man’s disappointment and believe 
that it will last for ever. Is the experience of life to count for 
nothing? May I not be allowed to believe that what you now 
put from you as distasteful will prove in the end your best 
consolation? I know the circumstances are cruel, for they do 
not admit of delay, but ” Her eyes filled with tears. 

“Do not urge me!” he pleaded. “It is just because I know 
how sweet and good she is — how fit to be wooed and won by the 
best amongst us — that I will not insult her by believing that she 
would take me as I am. Let me go, Aunt Yorke, and forget 
that I ever existed 1” 

“ That will be difficult, ” she said with intense bitterness, “ see- 
ing that whenever I look at my son I must remember him who 
robbed him of his birthright, and that, not content with that, 
he flung it away the better to mar Philipa’s life as well. I 
never loved my father-in-law. Sir Owen Yorke. I had little 
reason. But there seems something pitiful in this overthrow of 
all his schemes. And yet he was very good to you 1” 

Gilbert kept silence. It seemed as if Fate were driving him 
resistlessly against his will and his conscience. What Mrs. 
Yorke urged in one way Margery had urged in another, and 
the pity of it was that there was so much to be urged on their 
side. He could not deny that Mrs. Yorke had valid grounds for 
disappointment, and that his rejection of his cousin, however 
justified in his own sight, did look like an act of base ingrati- 
tude to his grandfather’s memory. 

“ I am in a grievous strait, ” he said at last. “ I must go over 

this ground again, though I had hoped ” He hesitated, 

stopped, and looking up, met Mrs. Yorke ’s softened and tearful 
gaze. It had its effect. 

“We need not settle the matter on the spot,” he suggested. 
“ Bear with me for a day or two. Aunt Yorke, so as to give me 
time — to see a little more of my cousin and judge for myself.” 

“ To that there can be no objection, only you will not think it 
unreasonable that the time should not be unduly prolonged, and 
that you will give me a definite answer before you go?” 

In this way the interview ended, and Mrs. Yorke had no reason 
to be dissatisfied with Gilbert’s behaviour. 

He saw, indeed, a great deal of Philipa ; they rode together, 


MRS. YORKE PRESENTS THE SITUATION. 


203 


took walks together, and devoted the evenings to music ; for how 
else to abridge their interminable length poor Gilbert did not 
know. This, he said to himself, would be the sort of life they 
would lead when they were married, and he owned that it would 
be intolerable. During these walks and rides he was the one 
who conversed, having a store of experiences to fall back upon 
and a . nimble wit in their recital ; Philipa only listened. 
When she questioned him at all it was for details of his recent 
illness, which was a subject he disliked. Her voice was low and 
pleasant, and her small, child-like face, lighted up by her sweet 
grey eyes, was indescribably tender and wistful ; but there was 
a monotony of softness — no flashes of intelligence responding to 
his own ; none of the give and take of swift mental intercourse 
which made of Mai-gery Denison the most delightful of com- 
panions as well as the most adorable of women. 

It was worse when she touched the piano as an accompaniment 
to his violin ; after one or two melancholy attempts he released 
her from the task and himself from the torture it inflicted. He 
said, with a smile, “ All his performances should be solos. ” 

But this was hardly better ; tingling with ardour or subdued 
to a divine tenderness, he met alike her gentle, undiscriminating 
smile, and couldhave groaned aloud in that anguish of exaspera- 
tion which serves to qualify the privileges of the true artist. At 
such moments the remembrance of Margery’s comprehension 
and eager sympathy turned the young fellow’s heart sick within 
him. 

Ah ! in that letter to John Cartwright, written after his inter- 
view with Philipa’ s mother, he had miserably understated his 
case ! For the reply to that letter he was waiting with feverish 
anxiety : he had, as it were, staked his future on the cast of a 
die ; he had agreed with himself that he would be bound by his 
friend’s judgment. 

It came duly, by return of post. Mrs. Yorke saw his colour 
change as he received it, and observed that he slipped it into 
his pocket without reading it, his interest in the breafast-table 
having therewith ceased. 

As soon as he could escape observation Gilbert went into the 
open air, and put a considerable distance between himself and 
his aunt’s house before he opened his cousin’s letter. He had 
come unawares upon a little wood, and following one of the 
tracks found himself almost shut in by the silent, wintry trees 
which were not yet so utterly bare but that the soft air blowing 


204 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


through them brought down show'ers of thin, withering leaves. 
Sitting down upon a felled log, deep sunk in the long grass, now 
bleached and sere and with the red and shrivelled bracken cluster- 
ing at its feet, Gilbert prepared to meet the verdict he had chal- 
lenged. 

The letter was very short, and the handwriting so clear that 
the re.ader mastered the contents almost at a glance. 

Nature in her simple and primitive forms still worked strongly 
in Gilbert Yorke, maintaining a certain unsophisticated element 
beneath all the superficial culture that he had received. As he 
read a little sharp cry escaped his lips ; the letter dropped from 
his fingers, while a look of mingled protest and despair gave back 
to the young man’s face the aspect which had been so familiar 
to it in the days of his boyish troubles. Presently he dropped his 
face into his hands, with his elbows propped on his knees and 
sat motionless, not so much thinking as suffering, till the sound 
of the neighboring church -clock striking the hour roused him 
from his stupour of sensation. 

He got up slowly, but with evident determination, picked up 
the letter, glancing through it again before returning it to his 
pocket, and began slowly to retrace his steps towards the house. 

“Poor old Jack!” he said to himself with a wistful tender 
ness. “He knows everything under the sun except that one 
thing that alters all the values of life I” 

Mrs. Yorke, keeping watch from the window of her morning- 
room, saw Gilbert return to the house, and her heart misgave 
her ; for an unusual gravity and determination were apparent in 
his aspect. She heard him go up to his bedroom and turn the 
key in the lock— a proceeding which had, she thought, an omi- 
nous significance. Could he be packing up for departure before 
announcing to her the decision which she dreaded, but none the 
less expected. 

Her restlessness was so great that she could not sit still, but 
went downstairs to see how Philipa was employed and whether 
Edward were established for the day. 

She found the girl, who had a pretty taste for drawing, bent 
over her easel in the sunny window of the dining-room ^and 
looking, her mother thought, unusually pale and unattractive. 
There was a look of anxiety not to be mistaken in the heavy 
eyes and the drooping lines of the mouth, also in the eager 
movement with which she turned as the door opened. 

“Are you alone, dear?” she asked kindly. “Where is Gilbert” 


MRS. YORKE PRESENTS THE SITUATION. 


205 


Philipa bent lower over her drawing, and her lips quivered. 

Mrs. Yorke did not press the question, but went up to the 
easel and criticised the work with unusual indulgence and with 
her hand resting on her daughter’s shoulder. 

“ I must go now and see Ted, ” she said briskly ; “ Gilbert will 
be looking for you directly. He went out after breakfast to en- 
joy his cousin’s letter — I saw the post-mark. You know, I sup- 
pose, there is an absurd frienship between them?” She smiled, 
nodded, and left the room. 

In the hall she met Gilbert and stopped to speak to him. 
How handsome he was, she thought, and how well that air of 
quiet resolution became him ! She half- wondered how any 
woman had been able to resist him ; the expression in his brown 
eyes struck her with a momentary reproach. 

“Are you looking for Philipa?” she asked cheerfully. “She 
is in there, ” indicating the room she had left. 

He coloured, made a gesture of assent, and would have passed 
on, but she put her hand on his arm to detain him. 

“ If, ” she said in the lowest of tones, “ you propose to speak 
to her — of the future, let me beseech you — because I am her 
mother and love her — not to tell her what you have told me. 
Otherwise ” 

Gilbert drew himself up with an air of acute irritation. 

“ Excuse me ; you must leave me alone in this matter — or — 
you will frustrate yourself !” 

He threw off her hand sharply, and made a step or two for- 
ward, when another thought struck him. If he had made up his 
mind to offer himself as a victim to pity or generosity or family 
obligation, why should he not make the sacrifice graciously? 

He turned back to where his aunt still stood with knitted 
brows. 

“I will tell Philipa nothing that can hurt her,” he said 
gently. “ I am bent on persuading her to be my wife. ” 

That night, in the quiet of his own room, Gilbert wrote to 
John Cartwright : 

“It is all over, Jack, and you are responsible! I stay here a 
day or two longer for decency’s sake, and then go to Rookhurst. 
Try and join me there. If what I feel is the reward of virtue, 
commend me henceforth to the pahts of vice ! There was never 
in me the stuff of which saints and martyrs are made. ” 


206 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

STORM AND STRESS. 

Now and again, in the intercourse between the sexes, the 
question arises whether the woman should reveal her love. 

The pain and excitement that accompanied her father’s death 
and the subsequent removal from The Chace were over, and 
Margery Denison and her aunt found a new phase of life open- 
ing before them. To both, the death of Mr. Denison was a relief 
unchecked by any regret, except such as pity and magnanimity 
might bestow ; and the change from the huge, delapidated man- 
sion, with means totally inadequate to its suitable maintenance, 
to Mr. Cartwright’s pretty house, produced that sense of security 
and independence which is so important a factor in the hap- 
piness of unmarried women. 

Mrs. Sutherland who had great zest for domestic arrangements 
and decoration, found inexhaustible interest in making The 
Hollies, as they had called their home, at once comfortable and 
elegant ; she seemed, as Margery told her, to have renewed her 
youth, and the querulousness caused by an anxiety and irri- 
tability constantly suppressed was replaced by the gentleness 
and sweetness of her natural temper. 

The circumstance of Martin Cartwright being their landlord 
and his son the chosen spiritual director of the elder lady led, 
of necessity, to closer relations between the families than would, 
at one time, have seemed possible, and they were also now set 
free from those restrictions which the pride of another had im- 
posed. Margery had called more than once at Elm Lodge to 
refer to Mrs. Cartwright some point of business, and on one of 
these occasions she had accepted her invitation to luncheon. 

When John came in at dinner-time it was to find her, as it 
were, at home in the house, more charming and debonnaire than 
he had ever known any woman before, and exercising over his 
mother that singular fascination which endowed her for the 
time being with a softness and sweetness new to his experience. 

On other occasions the hospitality had been reversed, and Mrs. 
Sutherland had insisted on keeping John to a cup of afternoon, 
tea, and Margery coming in late from one of her long country 
rambles, radiant with health and exercise, had sat down to the 
fine old piano, at her aunt’s request, and by her delicate skill. 


STORM AND STRESS. 


207 


and, still more, by the magic of her lovely voice, had renewed 
in the young minister’s *mind that passion of rapturous pain 
which had been first stirred in his soul by Gilbert’s touch on 
his violin as a boy. 

John held the cohviction that if he had yielded to this part 
of his nature or circumstances had fostered his latent craving 
for this most subtle and subduing of sensuous delights, it would 
have shaken his fidelity both to duty and religion. 

Now, as he sat in a dark corner of Mrs. Sutherland’s pretty 
drawing-room listening to the exquisite modulations of a voice 
whose common accent wrought in him a secret pain and desire, 
and with the face of the singer thrown into relief by the partial 
arrangement of the lights, his mood was that of a man mute 
under an exquisite torture. 

Margery was singing, to a more adequate setting than that 
popularly known, Tennyson’s Grisel song, “Tears, Idle Tears,” 
which^is in itself a sort of apotheosis of the passion and despair 
of humility, and when heard from the lips of a beautiful and 
adored woman — in vain adored — becomes endued with so trench- 
ant a bitterness as to tax the endurance of saint or martyr. 

When Margery had finished, herself strongly moved, silence 
fell on the little group. It needed a few moments’ desperate 
struggle before John could trust his voice with speech, and then 
his acknowledgments were of the briefest. He excused himself 
to Mrs. Sutherland and went away as soon as civility allowed. 

But when he found himself outside the house in the welcome 
darkness of the wintry evening, he stood still for a few minutes 
and leaned heavily against the garden gate, physically shaken 
by the force of the inward tumult. In the strained grasp and 
tightened lips were evidences of that perilous intensity of nature 
repressed by training and disciplined by grace, but still vital 
enough to challenge and defy the one and the other. 

Truly love like this, when disarmed from hope, was strong as 
death and cruel as the grave. 

“My God ! how shall I bear it !” was the cry of his soul as he 
walked homeward. 

Under this stress of feeling he walked rapidly and had reached 
the gas -lamps at the entrance of the town sooner than he expected 
or desired. He was now; within a short distance of Castle Street 
Chapel, and it occurred to his recollections that it was the 
weekly class night, and that he had promised to take the place 
of the class-leader in his absence. 


208 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


For almost the first time in his mature experience, his will 
revolted from the fulfilment of a religious duty ; more, with 
the poet’s words of passionate suggestion haunting his brain 
which yet seemed inadequate to express his own hopeless yearn- 
ing, and the image of Margery vivid to his eyes, for him to 
render the service required seemed mockery and outrage. He 
passed the chapel- door and walked on in! the direction of his 
home. If he were not there it would be concluded that he was 
unavoidably prevented, and some one else — some one more fit — 
would fill his place. 

“But before he had proceeded half-way, he turned and retraced 
his steps. It was not that inclination had revived or that duty 
smiled upon him ; it was rather her stern utterance as the voice 
of God that moved him ; the remembrance that he had pledged 
himself to be her bondman, and the shame of shrinking from 
his post under the first assault of temptation. If a man were 
to serve God only when disposed to do so, where would be the 
fight or the victory? 

After John was gone, Msr. Sutherland remarked ; 

“ It seems strange, but I think Mr. Cartwright does not care 
for music ; perhaps he thinks it inconsistent with a Christian 
profession. I would not sing to him again, dear.” 

Margery, who still kept her place at the piano, touched the 
keys in a dreamy impromptu and smiled. She had noticed the 
pallor of his face and the fire that burned in the depths of his 
sombre eyes, and her heart was singing quietly to itself for joy : 
“He loves me, but he will not [speak; how am I to give him 
the courage to speak?” 

But the next time they met, this conviction was shaken ; there 
were no signs of strong feeling under stronger control. There 
was the friendship touched with deference to which he had ac- 
customed her^ that neither sought nor shunned intercourse, and 
which seemed to include her in his general attitude of benign- 
ity'toward his fellow-creatures — an attitude Margery promptly 
repudiated so far as she was personally concerned. 

She went, as had become the custom, to Castle Street Chapel 
and listened attentively to his sermons, not, like her aunt, in 
the spririt of docile receptiveness, but in order to gather hints 
of mind and temper that might help her conclusions. They 
were not in any sense overwrought exhortations to an unreal or 
ascetic godliness, but they were permeated throughout with 


STORM AND STRESS. 


209 


what may be held as the spirit of the age — that strong sense of 
the tie of human brotherhood and consequent ardour of sympathy 
which serve to reduce very materially the desire of personal 
happiness. 

To a man absorbed in lessening the sum of misery and sin on 
the lines laid down by his church, and who unconsciously re- 
vealed in the process treasures of fervour, pure-mindedness and 
spirituality, the contingent incident of love or marriage seemed 
to form no part of the daily account. 

Other opportunities of seeing him were difficult to obtain. 
She could scarcely offer herself as a guest at Elm Lodge, and he 
was always able to find some valid reason for excusing himself 
from Mrs. 'Sutherland’s invitations ; for, indeed, it was well 
known what a life of untiring work and effort he led. 

On one occasion, indeed, *Mrs. Cartwright having met Margery 
in the Copplestone streets, referred to this subject ; for the girl 
had almost a magnetic power of attracting sympathy, saying 
that she feared John worked too hard and was overtaxing a 
constitution he was'mistaken in thinking one of cast-iron. She 
asked if either Mrs. Sutherland or herself had observed that he 
was looking thin and pale? To this Margery had replied that 
they had made no such observation ; she had often remarked 
how much finer his face had become since he was a boy, and 
had concluded it was an illustration of the shaping process to 
which mind was said to be subject-matter. And then she had 
added with her delightful smile and direct candid gaze : “ He 
grows more like you. ” And Mrs. Cartwright had walked home 
with the glow of maternal pride at her heart, and a deepened 
perception of Miss Denison’s fascination. 

Then on a sudden a pang smote her — a fear lest this charming 
young woman might step between herself and her son. It was 
a law of nature that, however fond and faithful a mother might 
be (only John little knew the depth of her devotion !), she was 
thrust aside and superseded by the despotic passion which a 
man conceived for the girl of his choice. If she found Margery 
Denison so attractive, was it not certain that John must do the 
same? And if so ? 

The notion distressed and repelled her. In such a case her son 
would pass out of her life, in a sense, and would leave her or- 
phaned with the cruel knowledge of a lost possibility. If she 
had been able to draw him closer — to reveal the ardour of af- 
14 


210 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 

% 

fection she had held under such stern control, he might perhaps 
have been content with what his home gave him ; but such com- 
punction came too late. 

It so happened that she was sitting up late for her son that 
same evening ; he was attending a circuit-meeting in a distant 
town, and the return -train was not due till midnight. Martin 
Cartwright and the servants were gone to bed, for the mistress 
of the house enjoyed a solitude that was cheered by expectation, 
and she had the brightest of fires and a dainty supper- dish in 
readiness for the traveller’s refreshment. When he came she 
pleased herself with waiting upon him, and she watched him 
as was too much her wont, with every faculty of observation 
sharpened by the experiences of the day. 

She thought he had never seemed more sweet and grateful, 
estimating her willing service beyond its worth, and seeming 
thoroughly appreciative of the blessings of his home. When 
supper was over, they sat talking together over the incidents of 
the day ; Mrs. Cartwright had a strong and enlightened interest 
in all matters relating to Church government ; and John, though 
tired and depressed, did his best to meet it at every piont. A 
little pause preparatory to separation had fallen between them. 
John was lying back in his father’s chair with his eyes fixed 
absently on the fire, and she, looking covertly towards him, 
feared that she detected in his aspect an air of sadness and dis- 
satisfaction. An impulse seized her to try conclusions with her 
fate. 

“John,” she asked quietly, though every pulse was beating 
hard, “ has the idea of marrying ever occurred to you ? The time 
comes to most men^when a mother’s love and care do not meet 
all their wants. ” 

The question was so sudden and unexpected that he could not 
help a little start of surprise and the colour mounting to his 
face, but he had himself too well under control to betray any 
other signs of weakness. 

“ I do not think I shall ever marry, ” was his answer. “ If 
new needs develop, mother, you must try and meet them. ” He 
got up to light his bedroom candle, and kissed her as he bade 
her good-night, which was not his habit or hers, but for all that 
Rachel Cartwright went to her room with a heavy heart. Love 
has a piercing insight, and in the expression of John’s eyes 
she thought she read, not indifference, but renunciation. 

The next day John obeyed his friend’s summons and went to 


STORM AND STRESS. 


211 


Rookhurst with a reluctance that nothing less but his love for 
Gilbert could have overcome. 

He found him in a mood different from any that he mani- 
fested before ; for the first time John heard him sp^ak harshly 
to a servant, and evince at all times an irritability quite foreign 
to his nature. 

“I half repent, John,” he said to him the evening of his ar- 
rival, as they sat after dinner over the wine and desert to which 
each was equally indifferent, “I half repent. Jack, I asked you 
to come. I did not know it, but I am unfit for society. I have 
done what you told me it was my duty to do, and the action 
won’t bear reflection. I hate the prospect of the life before me 
— am not sure even now whether I shall be able to go through and 
keep my promise, and Rookhurst has become hateful, for it is 
for this that I have sold my soul ! You do not speak !” he added 
impatiently. 

“I gave you what you asked for,” was John’s answer, “though 
it was against the grain, because it seemed cowardly to with- 
hold an opinion for fear of the consequences. But you were 
your own master and free to reject my advice. If I remember 
right, I only ventured to suggest that as you were disappointed in 
your hopes of personal happiness, the next best thing was to try 
to make the happiness of somebody else, especially when the 
doing so fell in with the hopes and plans of the living and of 
the dead.” 

“I am not of the temper to thrive on vicarious happiness,” 
retorted the other, almost with a sneer. “Have you ever tried 
it, Jack? To preach and to practice are lines lying very far 
apart. To forego the woman that you love is bad enough, but 
to marry the one that you don’t — by God, it shows you possibili- 
ties in yourself that you have never dreamed of before !” 

John’s eyes flashed. “Then stop short before it is too late! 
It will be infinitely better to break your promise to your cousin 
now than to break her heart hereafter 1 Besides — pardon me — 
my poor words would never have been given in favour of your 
engagement, had you not told me that there was a difficulty 
not to be got over between you and — Miss Denison. ” 

Gilbert laughed bitterly. “ Say it out. Jack ! There is no 
need to pick your words so carefully. You mean to be rejected 
is not to “ forego. ” Granted ; only I nurse the notion that the 
confession that I betrayed to you — could I ever in all my life 
keep anything back from you, old fellow? — was a pretence, a 


212 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


ruse of magnanimity to compel me to do what all my friends 
are persuaded it is my duty to do. ” 

“ I think not, ” said John sharply ; “ Miss Denison would despise 
such a subterfuge. That she was magnanimous, I agree, but 
it was the magnanimity that refused to spare herself in the de- 
sire to spare you. ” 

Gilbert pushed back his chair and rose impatiently. 

“We will not talk of her if you please a suggestion to which 
the other only too readily responded. “Forgive me, old fellow, 
if I say that to hear you defend her is more than I can bear, 
and that to be the husband of Philipa Yorke will make me 
more than ever the lover of Margery. Even now it seems to me 
that I will have her for my own ! You know it, Jack — she is 
part and parcel of my life. ” 

“ Fetch your fiddle, Bert, ” was the answer, “ and be the David 
to your own Saul ! It is long since I heard it, and you will 
have brought back from Leipzig treasures new and old.” 

Gilbert shook his head. . “ It would be more than I dare ; it 
would be like pouring vitriol on a wound, and bring all the ex- 
asperations of my lot close home. The girl I have promised to 
marry can scarcely distinguish one tune from another, while 
she ” He broke down in an agony of reminiscence. 

“ Even if she had lacked all that she has of beauty and wit 
and sweetness, I must have adored her with a soul tuned as 
hers is to all the heights and depths of musical expression. 
How close at tiroes we have lived together ! Jack, old friend, 
do not despise me !” 

John Cartwright went home heavy at heart. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

“IT IS VERY grievous!” 

The following winter was one of unusual severity over the 
whole continent of Europe, and in no part was its gloom and 
sternness felt more severely than in the West Riding of York- 
shire. On the open moors round Copplestone the frozen snow 
which lay deep upon the ground showed not a trace of life upon 
its blackened surface ; the shivering sheep had all been with- 
drawn within such shelter as the small farmers of the neighbor- 
hood could provide, and no foot crossed the dreary wastes except 
under the pressure of necessity. Physical distress, the outcome 


“it is very grievous!” 


213 


of increased and unavoidable poverty was rampant in the town, 
for the protracted frost with its inevitable conditons, affected 
its staple industry, and the great factories were turning off half 
their hands. One or two mills also had closed their doors, and 
others were working only half-time, so that the ranks of the un- 
employed were swelled to an army mutinous with misery. 

It was an aggravation of the widespread distress that day 
after day a dense fog enveloped the town, so that the very light 
of heaven was denied to those homes in which no food was 
found nor fire burned. 

Private charity did its best to stimulate and support munici- 
pal organization until all the ordinary channels of relief were 
full of intelligent activity without, as it seemed to the despond- 
ing, producing much appreciable result. 

The mayor of Copplestone, our old friend, Martin Cartv^right, 
with his sound sense, warm heart, and full purse, was at the 
head and front of every movement, and made for himself at 
this time a place in the 'esteem of his fellow towns-men which 
it is given to few men to deserve. His son’s place in the dif- 
ferent schemes of energetic action was less prominent than his 
father’s, but asked for more personal endurance and self denial, 
for it meant an individual contact with want and misery under 
all its manifold aspects. 

On one of these mornings of fog and frost, Gilbert Yorke had 
come up from Rookhurst to attend a meeting summoned in the 
town-hall by the mayor, to discuss a measure of relief which he 
was anxious to carry against a strong body of dissentients. He 
had come, not of his own accord, but in response to an urgent 
appeal for the support of his presence and purse from his cousin 
John ; not that Gilbert was indifferent to misery when brought 
under his notice, but the impulse to seek in order to save was 
no part of his character. 

The meeting being over in the sense desired by his uncle and 
his own duty fulfilled by a munificent cheque, the young man 
felt himself at liberty to follow his own inclinations, and they 
led [him to pay a visit, long desired but deferred till now as 
much from a sense of danger as of duty, to the ladies at The 
Hollies. 

As was to be expected from the state of the weather, he found 
them both at home, and was shown into the drawing-room, where 
Mrs. Sutherland was sitting, busily engaged in some coarse 
needlework by the light of a reading-lamp. A low chair on the 


214 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


other side of the table, on which a garment in course of con- 
triiction had been flung, bore witness, he thought, to recent 
companionship. 

Mrs. Sutherland received him not only with kindness but ef- 
usion, pouring forth those friendly enquiries so welcome to an 
anxious guest. 

“ Why had he been so long in coming to see them ? Could he 
stay to luncheon? What did he think of their new house? And 
where had he found inducement enough to exchange Rookhurst 
for Copplestone in such weather as this?” 

Gilbert accepted her invitation and answererd her questions 
with eagerness ; her pleasant cordiality had warmed his heart, 
and his own supreme anxiety had been set at rest by the sound of 
Margery’s delicious voice on the stairs trilling an air from the 
most graceful and popular of comic operas. He observed a start 
of surprise as she entered and recognised him, and this quick- 
ened the current of excitement in his own nerves. 

“Am I welcome?” he asked, as he rose to meet her and held 
her hand for a moment in both his own. 

“ Our friends are always welcome, ” was her answer. “ But on 
such a day !” 

He explained while she sat down at the table and resumed her 
sewing, asking him questions about the meeting with an in- 
terest which surprised him. 

“ Do not let us talk about it any more, ” he said at last. “ 1 
am ashamed how cold my philanthropy is. To give money is 
to give so little, and yet I feel quite unfit for personal service. 
That does not seem your case, Margery. I never remember see 
ing you working with a needle before, and that rough woollen 
frock must be for a poor child. ” 

“It is rough,” she answered, exhibiting it, “but I dared not 
dispute Mrs. Cartwright’s judgment. The headquarters of our 
local charities are at Elm Lodge, and we all take our orders 
from there. Don’t we, auntie? We are being taught that noth- 
ing counts but personal service. ” 

“Ah,” he said, smiling, “I perceive that you begin to know 
my cousin very intimately. ” 

The light of the unseasonable lamp was falling full upon Mar- 
gery’s face, and as Gilbert sat near her and was watching her 
attentively, he could not help seeing that the words he had 
spoken so lightly brought a sudden flush of colour to her cheek, 
and that the needle trembled in her Angers. 


IT IS VERY GREVIOUS!” 


215 


At the same moment Mrs. Sutherland was summoned out of 
the room for a consultation with her cook, whose mind was ex- 
ercised on the subject of luncheon, having heard that the master 
of Rookhurst was to be their guest. 

When Margery in her turn looked at Gilbert, she was startled 
by the change in his appearance. He had become very pale, and 
his attitude was as rigid as if he had been cast in stone. 

“My God!” he said at last, under his breath, “can this be 
true?” 

He made a movement as if he would have risen from his seat, 
but the room was too encumbered with furniture to admit of 
the resource of walking about in it, and he sat down again, 
shading his face with his hand. 

For a few moments Margery pursued her sewing as if in de- 
fiance of her agitation ; then, throwing it down, she rose and 
walked towards the fire-place, standing on the hearth with her 
clasped hands hanging loosely before her, her head a little 
bowed, and her gaze fixed on the ground in intense agitation. 

Presently she raised her head proudly, and turned so that she 
could see her companion. 

“Well,” she demanded, “well? You have surprised my secret 
and I am not ashamed ! He is your dearest friend. What have 
you to say to me ?” 

Gilbert neither spoke nor stirred. Margery, with a vague sense 
of alarm, went up to him and touched his shoulder. 

“Are we not friends?” she asked in a voice of melting kind- 
ness. “ Half my secret was yours before ; you are welcome to 
the other half. Answer your own question. Tell me — not if he 
is worthy — but if you think me worthy?” 

Still he kept the same posture and made no answer. Margery 
withdrew her hand. 

“You frighten me,” she said in an altered tone. “You have 
had your answer from my lips long ago ; you are pledged to 
your cousin, as indeed honour and generosity compelled, and 
yet — is it grievous to you that he whom I love is the man that 
you love best in the world?” 

“ Yes, ” he said, lifting up his face at last, which looked hag- 
gard with misery, “ it is very grievous I” 

“ I do not quite understand, ” she answered, and yet her eyes 
were full of tender sympathy. “ I remember what you were as a 
boy, when we first knew each other — how patient and sweet and 
heroic ! — and so I have proved you ever since ; you cannot belie 


216 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


your nature and turn disloyal at a stroke ! Is not John Cart- 
wright your dear friend? Would you have me believe your love 
for him — shall I dare to say your love for me — was of that 
poor sort that it would withhold the happiness that it does not 
bestow?” 

“ I do not justify myself, ” he said. “ You have always thought 
better of me than I deserve. I cannot touch the height of wish- 
ing that any man other than myself should make you happy. ” 

“Not even the man who loves you as his own soul? Who has 
urged your claims and merits upon me again and again with 
an ardour that I doubt if he will ever use in his own behalf !” 

“I doubt it, too! Will it be possible for him to plead for 
what he knows has been denied to me, or to build up his hap- 
piness on the ruin of mine? Is there no loyalty to be looked for 
on the one side as on the other? If John Cartwright is what 
you think him — no,! I will say no more — since he is what you 
think him, it is morally impossible that he can do this thing. ” 

Margery turned a little pale, then she said deliberately, with 
a sort of noble boldness : 

“I had not sufficiently thought of all this — it is a difficulty to 
be got over only in one way. It will rest with you to remove 
this stumbling-stone You must make John Cartwright free to 
speak. ” 

She neither blushed nor faltered as she said this, but met his 
eyes fully, with an expression that seemed to challenge him to 
make good her estimate of himself. 

“You ask me, ” was his answer, “what no woman ought to 
ask the man who loves her. Besides, you do not yet understand. 
It is true, as you say, that I am pledged to my cousin Philipa, 
and while I mean to keep faith, my prayer day and night has 
been for deliverance. I have been fool enough to cheat myself 
with the notion that you cast me off out of pity for her and for 
my fortune, and that some turn of fate would bring us together. 
Life as it is has only been bearable under this madness of credu- 
lity. Now it is brought home to me that I have really lost you 
— beyond redemption — and that I owe it to my dearest friend ; 
Margery, to do what you require of me would be to give you 
more than my life I” 

“Well, if so, ” she said in a suppressed, passionate voice, “I 
demand even that sacrifice ! I would have loved you if I could, 
God knows ; but you must see that even in that case difficulties 


‘‘it is very grevious!” 


217 


would have existed hard to overcome. Those between us now 
are insurmountable, and it behoves you to submit. You say you 
love me ; I ask you to help me to be happy, and I know you 
better than you know yourself. ” 

She stopped, but as he did not answer, she went on : 

“Who is better acquainted than you with what my life has 
been from a child? What examples have been set me and to 
what influences I have been exposed ? I think I love John Cart- 
wright because the simplicity and unselflshness of his character 
seem, from force of contrast, to offer me what I desire most. 
I do not mean he has no higher claims, but it is not his gifts 
which attract me. He saved my life — you will understand 
now ; but it was not the action, but the unconsciousness of it, 
that won me. As a friend, speaking of you, he has touched my 

heart as no one has ever done before ” She paused again, her 

head erect and her aspect instinct with tender animation. This 
time Gilbert spoke. 

“I can well believe it,” he said with a groan, “only — spare 
me if you can ! What is the service that I am to render you — 
or him? You know that he loves you? But that follows of 
necessity !” 

She turned aside to hide the blushes that crimsoned her face, 
then recovering her firmness : 

“I do not know, although my belief is strong. No word or 
look has passed between us ; but have you not yourself shown 
me that his lips are righteously closed until you give him leave 
to open them? I trust you, Gilbert, as 1 would trust no one else 
in the world, because I have proved you a hundred times before ; 
I trust you with my pride, my honour as a woman. Take care !” 
she continued more tremulously ; “ do not offer what he does not 
want — tell him no more than that he is free to seek. ” 

“ You try me very hard, ” he answered. “ It is almost more 
than I can bear — this solicitude to win what I have poured out 
at your feet like water, and in vain ! Will any friendship stand 
such a test? You will leave me nothing!” 

He took up his hat and turned to depart. 

“ I cannot stay — excuse me to Mrs. Sutherland. ” 

Then having reached the door, he came back again, noting the 
attitude of dejection she had involuntarily assumed and that 
her eyes were full of tears — not for herself, he knew, but for 
him. 


218 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


“ I promise, ” he said, touching her hand, “ to do the thing you 
wish, and if it be badly or bluntly done, what matters? The 
result must be the same.” 

And he departed. 


CHAPTER XXXYI. 

BROTHER AND SISTER. 

It was the morning of Christmas Day, but the family at Fair 
Towers were by no means in a mood congenial to the sacred 
season. The weather was so intensely cold as to nip the en- 
ergies of all but the most vigorous and light-hearted, and neither 
Mrs. Yorke nor her children belonged to this category. 

The intention had been to have entertained a party of in- 
timate friends for the Christmas week to meet the young master 
of Rookhurst, and to give the opportunity for congratulation on 
the engagement of the daughter of the house. Publicity had 
already been secured to this event by the efficacious means of 
inserting a carefully studied paragraph in the leading society 
papers, which was perused with great satisfaction by the old 
lawyer, Mr. Percival, to whom Mrs. Yorke had caused copies to 
be sent, and by Gilbert himself (who had been made the subject 
of the same postal attention) with feelings of hopeless dejection. 

He had accepted as in duty bound, his aunt’s invitation for 
Christmas, and then had written again a day or two after to 
explain that he had slipped on the ice in skating, and so seriously 
sprained his knee that he should not be able to keep his engage- 
ment. His doctors gave him no hope of leaving the sofa for a 
month to come. 

Mrs. Yorke was unreasonably angry ; she was almost disposed 
to regard the excuse as mendacious, and when convinced to the 
contrary, revolved in her mind the possibility of sending Philipa 
to play nurse to her cousin, but relinquished the idea as im- 
practicable. The result was that she refrained from issuing her 
invitations, and, as we have said, Christmas Day arose on a de- 
pressed family group. The only alleviation was a present from 
Gilbert Yorke to his fiancee in the shape of a gold Venetian 
necklace of exquisite workmanship. Mrs. Yorke, while allowing 
this, pronounced the gift to be very much below the occasion in 
point of value. 

Philipa, however, was perfectly satisfied. In the privacy of 


BROTHER AND SISTER. 


219 


her own room she kissed the pretty trinket with tender enthusi- 
asm, and took the case which contained it in her pocket to 
church, feeling a secret consolation in clasping it covertly in 
her hand during the duller portions of the service. On her 
return, she made her toilet with many a fond regret that Gil- 
bert would not be there to admire her new frock, fastened the 
necklace about her slender throat, and then went down to her 
brother’s room to exhibit the gift. 

Edward, who was always most sullen and irritable on ani- 
versaries, welcomed his sister on this occasion with a sort of 
avidity. There was indeed a curious excitement and animation 
in his manner ; he examined the chain minutely, pronouncing 
it in the most contemptuous manner to be “nothing but 
trumpery. ” 

“Where is the fellow hiding all the family diamonds?” he 
asked. “Don’t you think something of that sort would have 
been more appropriate for the future mistress of Rookhurst?” 
And then he began to laugh with that curious lack of congruity 
and restraint which is one of the most aggravating indications 
of weakness of mind. 

“ I like it better than anything else he could have sent me !” 
Philipa protested loyally. “ What is there to laugh at, Ted ?” 

He continued to laugh, and the girl turning away from his 
couch sat down in a low chair by the fire and leaned her head 
on her hand. Her own spirits were depress^ by disappoint- 
ment, and there seemed an element of mockery in her brother’s 
laughter which gave it more significance than usual and fretted 
her nerves. The daylight was [already fading and the early 
dusk of a cloudy winter’s day shadowed the room, the leaping 
flames on the open hearth throwing into relief the small girlish 
figure in its crimson cloth frock, and the pathetic pose of the 
bowed head. 

Edward glanced toward her, conscious of an ill -understood 
influence from the sweetness and purity of his sister’s aspect. 
He ceased to laugh, and raised himself on his elbow. 

“ There are many worse-looking girls than you, ” he said in his 
harsh, rasping voice, “and though I owe you no mercy on the 
score of your selfish meanness in playing into this fellow’s hands, 
I am half sorry for you too. As for him, it’s of a piece with 
his infernal insolence that he has dared to treat you as he has 
done. Didn’t I promise you from the beginning, Phil, that I 
would spoil your little game?” 


220 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOiVTEN. 


Philipa looked up anxiously. Gilbert’s name was never 
mentioned in Edward’s hearing without provoking a torrent of 
abuse, but there was an eagerness and intention in his present 
manner that raised a vague alarm. 

“What do you mean?” she asked, her soft appealing eyes full 
of tears. “Why can’t you let Gilbert alone? What fresh 
cause of offence has he given you? I suppose nothing new has 
happened since he was here last?” 

Edward writhed on his couch after a fashion of his own, 
when under strong excitement, uttering at intervals a low deri- 
sive chuckle, which irritated even Philipa ’s meek spirit beyond 
endurance. 

“I cannot bear it!” she exclaimed passionately, and going to 
her brother’s couch she put her hand on his shoulder as if to 
restrain his movements, and shook him with her gentle strength. 
“Be quiet, Ted !” she entreated. “You know how mother hates 
to see you behave like that.” 

The unaccustomed check was not to be endured. 

“How dare you!” he shouted, throwing off her hand ven- 
omously. “Who are you to teach me how to behave myself — 
little fool, as you are, to think that cousin Yorke or any other 
man would ever care for your baby face ! I had meant to break 
the fall for you, but you may take it now as you can get it. 
Look here! read^that!” 

His hand had been for some time in the depths of his pocket, 
and he now drew forth a folded paper and thrust it toward her. 
For a moment the girl regarded it as if it had been a viper pre- 
pared to sting ; then, unconsciously influenced by an authori- 
tative gesture from her brother, she slowly extended her hand 
and took it. 

“Open and read !” he commanded. “Stir up the fire ; there 
will be light enough !” 

As if under a spell she did as she was told, sitting down 
again in the chair she had just quitted, for her limbs trembled 
under her. 

The paper which her ‘brother had given her to examine con- 
sisted of a portion of a letter and was in the well-known hand- 
writing of ‘Gilbert Yorke. It had the appearance of having 
been torn across and crushed together, probably before being 
flung aside, but the creases had been carefully smoothed out and 
the rent neatly joined together with a strip of adhesive paper. 
Philipa glanced at the first words and flushed with indignation. 


BROTHER AND SISTER. 


221 


“ It is addressed to his cousin, John Cartwright. Do you think 
I will read it?” 

“You will either read it, miss, or hear it from my lips. I 
know it by heart. Fletcher found it when he moved the writ- 
ing-table in his room a day or two ago and brought it to me. 
He has had my orders and knows they are worth keeping. Since 
then I’ve bided my time !” 

He stopped a moment, for his excitement was getting beyond 
his control and he was anxious not to be overheard by his mother. 
Her meddling would spoil his revenge. 

“Look here, Phil!” he resumed with an eagerness painfully 
repressed, “I want to make you understand. Don’t you re- 
member, when he was here last, he got a letter from the draper’s 
son, and popped directly after? Don’t you remember? Mother 
told me all about it. Who knows but you what blasted lies 
he told you, damning his soul for the sake of Rookhurst, under 
the canting advice of the Methodist parson !” 

He had raised himself by degrees almost into a sitting posture, 
but at this point he threw himself back as if exhausted. 

“ God knows, ” he muttered, “ I always hated him, but even I 
scarcely thought he was such a blackguard as he is I” 

Still Philipa held the letter in her hand with her eyes turned 
resolutely away and distended with misery. 

Then Edward began in a voice of insufferable mockery to 
recite the words aloud : “ Dear old Jack, ” but the girl clapped 
her hands to her ears to shut out the sound. 

“Don’t! You will drive me mad. Rather than that I will 
read it! Is it about me?” piteously. 

“Rather! Poor little fool!” 

The touch of tenderness in his voice broke down her power of 
further resistance ; she let her eyes dwell on the letter, and 
grasped its meaning in an agony of apprehensiveness. 

It was the first draft of Gilbert’s letter to John Cartwright, 
which he had torn across and flung aside because it had seemed 
to him too harsh and outspoken. 

I It is unnecessary to give phrases ; the burden was simply 
this : 

jjHG' was coerced by circumstances into marrying one woman 
when he adored another ; could the belief that his cousin loved 
him or the duty he owed to his grandfather justify a step that 
was repugnant to every instinct and conviction of his nature, 
and must result in the misery of both? In the extremity to 


222 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


which his aunt’s action had reduced him, he seemed to have 
lost the power of personal decision, and he had decided to act 
as John Cartwright should advise. ” 

Philipa let the paper flutter from her hand to the floor, and 
had turned to fly from the room to hide the shame that almost 
consumed the sense of misery, but she was standing near enough 
to her brother for him to grasp the folds of her gown, and he 
caught and detained her. 

“What will you do?” he asked sharply; “what will you do? 
You do not go till you tell me that !” 

Philipa struggled to be free, but finding it impossible, faced 
the necessity with a resolution and a dignity that even Edward 
recognised. 

“What shall I do?” she repeated. “What can a girl do who 
is so miserable and disgraced as I am, but give him back his 
word set and him free. ” And then with a sudden bitter cry 
she sobbed out, “ Oh, mother ! mother !” 

Edward dropped back on his couch with his eyes fixed on her 
face ; there was something in its aspect that pierced through 
his selfish callousness. 

“Poor, soft little fool!” he said, but not unkindly. “I was 
half afraid you would stick to your bargain in order to give the 
fellow what he wanted. But — you have not reckoned with 
mother. ” 

Philipa made a gesture of distress. 

“ She could not force me, and — if she did, it would be of no 
use. Oh, let me go ! ” 

He released his hold and the girl fled into her own room, and, 
locking the door, flung herself prone upon the rug before the 
fire in an agony of distress and humiliation hard to be endured. 

Half an hour ago she had been full of quiet content and joy. 
She had never been so presumptuous as to expect that Gilbert’s 
feeling for her was as hers for him. Was it possible ! she had 
asked herself. But she was quite content to accept his affec- 
tionate kindness as an equivalent for her devotion, and to trust 
to its influence to win a warmer regard. Indeed, so strong was 
her sense of her own deficiencies that she would scarcely have 
dared to accept the offer he had made her, had she not been 
aware that it was in her power to enrich the man she loved. 
This had given her confidence, and perhaps had prevented her 
from analysing too curiously the motives which had led to the 
end she_;desired. She had also, in her almost childish simplic- 


BROTHER AND SISTER. 


223 


ity, deceived herself by thinking that no one, except perhaps her 
mother, guessed her secret— an opinion in which her mother, 
aware of her sensibility, had taken pains to confirm her ; while 
the many conclusive proofs which Gilbert had given of his in- 
difference to wealth and position led her to the comforting con- 
viction that he would never have asked her to be his wife had 
he not cared enough for her to think that they might be happy 
together. That their grandfather’s wishes weighed a little in 
the account was only natural and right, and she was grateful 
for this help to her felicity. 

But now she saw clearly — saw how she had deceived herself, 
and that what she had joyfully welcomed as a free-will offering 
had been, in fact, the outcome of coercion and sacrifice. He 
not only did not care for her, but he cared passionately for some 
one else — some one, doubtless, better fitted to be his mate, whose 
merits would aggravate his sense of her own shortcomings. He 
had offered himself in defiance of despair and wretchedness — 
under pressure from her mother — based on an appeal to his pity 
for herself, and under the conviction that marriage would mean 
misery for both ! 

For a time the girl lay on the floor suffering in silent misery, 
for the thought was present to her that if she gave herself the 
relief of sobs and tears she would be unable to keep her secret 
from her mot^pr ; but after a time she roused herself from this 
attitude of humiliation, and sat down in a chair by the fire, 
with her aching head on her hand, and her pale face beginning 
to flush and her eyes to kindle as thought and resolution pressed 
upon her. 

“ I thank God, ” she said to herself, “ that I know in time — 
that it is not too late ! How should I have lived my life if we 
had married and I had found it afterwards?” 

There was a knock at the door, and a maid entered to say that 
Mrs. Yorke was waiting for her to come to luncheon. Her first 
impulse was to excuse herself, but she corrected it on second 
thoughts and sent back word that she would come immediately. 
As soon as she was alone again she arranged her hair and dress, 
and then stood for a moment frail but resolute, to arrange her 
plan of action. 

Before going to the dining-room, she had decided to speak to 
her brother again ; therefore she ran swiftly downstairs and 
turned aside at once to his room. The table by the side of his 
couch was set for luncheon, and Fletcher was already in attend- 


224 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


ance, but Philipa’s purpose was too fixed to be easily daunted. 

“ Leave me alone with my brother for a minute, ” she said. 
“I want to speak to him privately and the man obeyed at 
once before Edward could interfere, won by the sweet authority 
of her manner. Then she went up to the couch and put her 
hand gently on her brother’s arm.- “I want you to make me a 
promise, Ted. Do not tell mother what you have told me — to- 
day, at all events. ” 

Her voice was low and controlled, but her manner conveyed 
the idea of strenuous entreaty. He pushed away her hand with 
his usual rough impatience. 

“I do nothing in the dark. Will it help my purpose or hin- 
der it?” 

Philipa paused to swallow the sob that rose in her throat. 

“You can judge for yourself. I want to write to Gilbert to 
break off our engagement before — before ” She stopped. 

Edward looked at her with keen suspicion. “ Can I trust you. 
Will you really do what you say? If so, I will hold my tongue, 
of course, and more — I will take care that Fletcher posts the 
letter on the sly. Bring your letter to me, ” he continued, grow- 
ing excited as was his wont. “ I am your brother and have a 
right to be consulted. I am afraid of you, Phil ; you have been 
crying over that — blackguard !” 

“ Oh, he is not that, ” she said with a little smile. “ But you 
would never understand. He meant to do right* I can’t show 
you my letter, but I will tell you what I mean to say. There 
is only one thing possible. ” 

She drew herself away from him for a moment, and spoke 
again after a moment’s struggle for self-control. 

“ I mean to tell him the truth ; it will be the best way. I 
shall tell him we have found the copy of that letter, and that, 
now I know, I set him free from his promise, and could not 
marry him for any consideration on earth. ” 

And then falling suddenly on her knees by her brother’s side, 
and hiding her face on his arm, she added : 

“Ted, need our mother know at all — that is, the whole truth? 
She will be so angry with him and will try to make him suffer 
for it if she can.” 

For the second time that day a movement of pity and tender- 
ness touched the young man’s heart, and perhaps for the first 
time in his life he attempted a caress. He put his hand on his 
sister’s bowed head and stroked her hair affectionately. 


225 


“his loss shall not be my gain.” 

“ Poor, soft little thing, ” he answered ; “ he has flouted you, 
but you don’t want him hurt ! So much the greater scoundrel 
he. ” Then pushing her away, “ Look sharp and get your letter 
written and bring it here. It is Chirstmas Day, and I shall haxe 
to send Fletcher into town ; it won’t do to risk its lying all night 
in the village post-oflice. ” 

She rose suddenly, hearing Mrs. Yorke’s voice, and was hurry- 
ing out of the room when he called her back. 

“ On your honour, Phil But a girl has no honour ! You 

refuse to marry Gilbert Yorke, and to give him — Rookhurst?” 

He broke into a low chuckle, waiting for her answer with 
malice glowing in his eyes. 

The girl’s slight figure seemed to dilate ; an indefinable ex- 
pression touched her lips. 

“On my honour — as before God,” she said solemnly, “I will 
never marry my cousin, Gilbert Yorke !” 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

HIS LOSS SHALL NOT BE MY GAIN. 

It was midnight. John Cartwright sat in his bed-room at his 
writing-table with an open letter before him — one that he had 
read and reread since its receipt, but which still remained un- 
answered. During this interval he had gone about his daily 
work like a man to whom something has happened changing 
the focus and bearings of life. 

A reading-lamp stood on the table, by which light rather than 
that of gas John always preferred to work, and he had fallen 
into the habit of doing all work of brain or pen after the rest of 
the household were asleep. The fire had burnt itself out, al- 
though the weather — a week before Christmas — was intensely 
cold, but the young minister had not noticed it. He was sit- 
ting with his forehead propped on his hands, and his eyes fixed 
on the letter before him to which, he had said to himself, an 
answer should be written before he slept. 

Presently, with a deep breath of oppression he pushed back 
his chair, moved by the instinctive impulse to help the activity 
of the mind by bodily movement, but he checked it. To walk 
his room at night would be certain to attract his mother’s 
anxious vigilance, and for a moment his brows contracted with 
a sense of impatience under restraint. It was one of those triv- 
15 


226 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


ial circumstances which serve at times to fire a train of 
impressions. 

A vision rose before him : a home of his own, where freedom 
reigned, presided over and inspired by a woman whose look and 
voice and touch which, now thrilled and disordered every per- 
ception, would then become the channels of such peace and 
satisfaction as are only glimpsed in dreams ; one with whom 
the outward endowments of beauty and distinction were of less 
account than a freshness and charm of character, which en-. 
deared and ennobled every grace and gift. 

A woman whom many men had loved in vain, and who by a 
curious exercise of feminine perversity — if such a word could 
be applied to a generosity that dissolved his soul in gratitude — 
had turned from the great and the grandly endowed to bestow the 
treasure of her love upon his own insignificance. It was not to 
be believed ; not at least to be understood. If accepted, in spite 
of reason and conviction, it would serve to revolutionise his life 
and nature. The husband of Margery Denison could never be 
the same man as the son of Rachael Cartwright, or adhere to 
the plan of life, he, as such, had marked out for himself ; and 
yet the life so marked out was the issue of the most deliberate 
purpose. 

Nor was this all, nor chief. 

To seize and drink this draught of intoxication offered to 
him meant to take for himself the treasure on which Gilbert 
Yorke had staked and lost his hopes of happiness. True, the 
possession of it having been denied him, he had consented to 
accept his fate and to order his future life on other and alien 
lines ; but how false to all the dues of honour must that man be 
who could build up a home of ideal blessedness upon the ruins 
of his friends ! 

Margery Denison as John’s wife would stand for ever as a 
barrier between them, however gallant might be the struggle to 
overleap it on the one part or the strength of the desire on the 
other. 

John Cartwright turned back to read once more the conclud- 
ing phrases of the letter in which, with the utmost delicacy and 
consideration, Gilbert Yorke had told him that the man who 
stood between himself and the woman that he worshipped was the 
friend whom he least suspected and loved best in the world. 

“ At the first shock. Jack — I suppose because it was so unex- 


227 


“his loss shall not be my gain.” 

pected — the fact that it was you who was my rival seemed a 
cruel aggravation of the case. It was like a blow from a be- 
loved hand. But that feeling passed, and now I am prepared 
to say, go in boldly and take the blessedness of which, I own, 

I am not half so worthy. We will not meet for a little while, 
but in the long run, things shall be as before between us. I can- 
not afford to lose my friend as well. ” 

There was a postscript, after Gilbert’s manner. 

“ Write soon and tell results. I shall have more courage to go 
to Philipa when all is settled. ” 

And it was an answer to this letter which still remained un- 
written. 

When at length it was achieved, it was very brief and to this 
effect : 

“I propose to go to The Hollies to-morrow. I will write to 
you after I have seen Miss Denison. ” 

For John Cartwright had come at length to a conclusion ; 
namely, that it would be an unmanly and ignominious thing to 
carry out the purpose that had slowly taken root in his mind, 
without going to the woman whom he loved, and granting to 
her loving kindness the poor comfort of confession and ex- 
planation. 

To carry this out would entail so severe an ordeal that he 
spent the sleepless night in preparation for it, and arose the 
next morning after an experience so searching that it left its 
traces equally in the pallor of his set face and the increased de- 
termination of his soul. 

It was impossible that a love and an intelligence like Rachael 
Cartwright’s should perceive these indications and not suspect 
a secret meaning in them, but life was teaching her those les- 
sons which are never finally shut against the sincere in heart, 
and she had the grace not only to keep silence, but to show no 
signs of comprehension. 

Margery was seated at the piano when John Cartwright was 
announced ; for the maid, knowing his intimacy with the family, 
had taken him at once into the room. She rose abruptly, with 
a sudden rush of sweet, womanly shames and perturbations 
such as no other man’s name had ever before excited. 

The hour was unconventionally early for a call, and the 
thought that fiashed across her mind was radiant with the con- 


228 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


viction of the motive that had brought him. Gilbert had been 
loyal. When was he ever otherwise? That John Cartwright 
looked pale, with a concentrated passion in the depths of his dark 
eyes, only confirmed her impression ; but she was willing to trifle 
with her happiness. 

“ Listen ! ” she said after the first somewhat formal greeting ; 
“ I have been practising this impromptu of Chopin ; does it 
commend itself to you?” 

There was no resource but to listen. He stood by the piano 
at the back of her chair while her skilled fingers gave a magical 
interpretation to the comple:jt subtlety of the piece she had 
chosen, but when she had finished he did not break the silence.” 

“I see! You do not like it?” she said, turning towards him 
with a smile. 

“ No, but I am no judge — only my feeling is that music like 
that is in a sense immoral. It seems to dissolve the power of 
the will ; there is no appeal or aspiration in it like Beethoven 
or Bach. It is sensuous, and only that. I speak as a fool under 
con-ection, ” he added smiling, “for I know nothing but what 
my cousin Gilbert has taught me. ” 

“ He has taught you very well, ” was her answer ; “ I suppose 
no one ever yet suggested that Chopin’s art was calculated either 
“to raise a mortal to the skies, or to draw an angel down.” 
But you can scarcely desire that the attitude of the mind should 
ba always that of aspiration ? That would be to tax poor human 
nature too severely, though perhaps that is your fault, Mr. Cart- 
wright?” 

* She looked at him as she spoke with that expression of veiled 
tenderness which changed the playful reproach almost into a 
caress. John, in his agony of self- containment, could have 
groaned aloud. Then he said : 

“ I am anxious to tell you why I have come so early this morn- 
ing? May I hope we shall not be interrupted?” 

“We are safe from interruption,” she answered, getting up 
from the piano and sitting down in a low chair by the fire, with 
her back to the light. The winter daylight was not very search- 
ing, but Margery feared lest her face should betray her, and she 
had caught a vague apprehension from the tones of his voice. 

“We shall not be interrupted,” she repeated a little mechani- 
cally, “for my aunt is writing letters for the Indian mail in her 
own room. ” 

John approached the fire also, and stood opposite to her. T 


229 


“his loss shall not be my gain.” 

position showed every line of his face and figure, and before he 
had spoken a word she saw it was his purpose to renounce her. 
But she also saw that he loved her ; therefore she would be able 
to shake his resolution. He stood for a few moments motionless, 
with his eyes on the ground, as if seeking for the right words ; 
then he looked up and — not to spare himself like a coward — he 
looked at her as he spoke. 

“ I want to tell you in as few words as I can what has brought 
me here this morning. I am unfit for work or duty until I have 
spoken to you, so it seemed best to lose no time in doing so. I 
only trust — humbly — that I shall not make you angry. ” 

“ I do not think you will do that. ” 

“ Do you remember, ” he began after another pause of refiection, 
“that I was with my cousin, Gilbert Yorke, when he first met 
you and your father in Copplestone? You stopped your carriage 
to speak to him — but it is scarcely likely you should remember. ” 

“ I remember perfectly. ” 

“ I was then as dull and loutish a boy as any in all Yorkshire, 
but from that moment a new sense quickened in my soul. I saw 
something adorable, and— I adored it ; at first almost as uncon- 
sciously as the green blade shoots under the sun. My cousin, 
too, did much to help me at this time. Since then, circum- 
stances, as you know, have arisen which brought us into contact. 
I have learnt to know you intimately, but I have no words to 
explain fitly all that this means to me ; one thing it means that 
I am bound to confess before I put it out of my life. I have 
dared to love you. Miss Denison.” 

“Then, if you love me — and I know that you love me — why 
must you put this love out of your life?” 

She raised her eyes and looked at him — eyes in which reproach 
and tenderness were at strife ; then added with a delightful 
smile and an accent hard to resist : 

“Are you afraid that I could not make you happy? I would 
try very hard. ” 

John glanced at her, then looked away and set his face as a 
flint. Such was his secret passion that he could have grovelled 
at her feet and kissed the hem of her gown ; could have surren- 
dered duty and friendship to taste the delirious delights of their 
mutual love. It was the very extremity of his condition that 
gave the harshness to look and voice under which Margery in- 
stiuctively shrank. 

“ Yes, ” he said, “ I am afraid, rather I am sure, that we could 


230 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


not be happy together. I can scarcely believe that you care for 
me, but if you do it is from some impulse of generosity for 
which I shall be grateful to my life’s end, but which could not 
stand the test of union. We have been born and bred in a dif- 
ferent sphere, and my intimate associations are those which you 
have been taught — I will not say to despise — but to consider as 
beneath you. And they are beneath you ! Personally, I should 
disappoint and offend ^you in many ways. Put to the proof no 
effort of high-mindedness on your part could prevent the shock 
of alienation which my inevitable shortcomings would pro- 
duce ” 

She interrupted him. 

“ Why, this is the grace of self- depreciation run mad ! What 
you say might have held — in a little measure — if you had been 
other than a gentleman or I a lady of high degree instead of all 
but a poor dependent on my good aunt’s bounty ! You will have 
to find weightier reasons than these before I shall consent “ to be 
put out of your life. ” 

“ Oh, ” he cried sharply, “ spare me too much kindness ! What 
am I to say? I adore you — beyond reason and religion — and 
yet to ask you to be my wife is a madness against which, 
blinded as I am, I will struggle to defend myself. Do you know 
what it would mean to me? It would mean to lay down the 
duties to which I am pledged, for such service as I owe would 
be incompatible with my love for you. It would mean besides 
to spoil my mother’s life ; she loves me so closely that it would 
hurt her beyond healing to know that her love was no longer 
necessary and influential. ” 

“ And since when, ” asked Margery indignantly, and rising as 
she spoke, “since when has it been held a man’s duty to sacri- 
fice the woman he loves to the selfishness of his mother, or his 
own infirmity of purpose? If this be all, you may trust me to 
brighten, not to impoverish, your mother’s life. I will make 
all her hopes and cares and aspirations mine, and will follow 
you so closely in your daily duties, let them be what they may, 
that neither she nor her son shall find any flaw in my humility 
or my devotion. I think you do not believe that I love you. ” 

“ I believe it, ” he answered, but with his eyes turned away 
from the allurement of her face, “ or how else could I explain 
such matchless generosity? But I repeat — forigve me — that it 
is not me — such as I am — that you love, but some idea of an ex- 
alted imagination. I would not take advantage of your noble 


231 


“ms LOSS SHALL NOT BE MY GAIN.” 

error and endure the agony and shame of watching your awake- 
ning even if nothing else divided us.” 

“And what else divides us,” she demanded, “beyond your 
mother and your absolute distrust of my loyalty and judgment?” 

“ The reasons I have alleged are enough, ” he replied with a 
desperate firmness, “ although you do not see fit to render them 
right. But — you must know it — were all else equal, I would 
not take the happiness with which you dazzle me for — I am 
Gilbert Yorke’s friend.” 

“Ah !” she said with a deep breath ; “it is as I feared ! And 
yet I hoped you were above it ! You mean that you think it 
right to sacrifice two lives for the sake of a scruple that will 
not even benefit the man for whom it is made? Is it worth 
while? I am as far off from Gilbert Yorke as if he had already 
married his cousin, or I — if I dare say it — had become your 
wife. You would put me to shame, only I know that you are 
arguing against yourself, and I am not of the sort that will give 
their happiness the go-by for a delusion !” 

Under this, appeal John stood mute. She could perceive that 
he was suffering acutely, almost beyond his endurance and it 
was because she was so sure of her power over him that she 
played her part with such a tender boldness. It was, however, 
not to argument, but to her personal infiuence, she must trust. 

“John!” she said softly, “give up this useless struggle ! Let 
us be happy !” 

He could not resist the magnetism of her voice and look. For 
the first time during the interview he came close up to her, and 
taking her hands, strained them against his heart with eyes ful 
of passion and despair. 

“ There is not a word to be said nor a plea to urge on the side 
of yielding to the bliss you offer that I have not weighed and 
pondered even to exhaustion, and I have decided against them 
all. Not \in such moments as these, or I must have yielded, 
but last night — alone — with God and my conscience. Dear, it is 
labour lost to say over again what I have already said so in- 
effectually ; but my purpose is fixed. To have you for my wife 
is not for me. Some men have grace to love their wives and 
serve God and their neighbour as before. I could not, for my 
nature is hard to keep in bounds and love is not to me a holy 
affection, but an idolatry that would make of me a traitor. 
Nor, in spite of your divine confidence, would you escape the 
disappointment I have foretold. This is enough without ought 


232 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


of Gilbert, and that thought is enough without any other. The 
want of your love has blasted his life, and to him I owe, in a 
sense, the salvation of mine. His loss shall never be my gain. 

Long before he had finished speaking he had recovered his 
firmness, and had dropped the hands he had clasped so eagerly. 
Margery stood erect without any attempt at interruption, her 
lovely eyes looking straight into his with an expression of sor- 
row rather than of anger. 

“I cannot plead any more,” she said, when he had ceased 
speaking. “You must go your own way, only — you deceive 
yourself ! You do not love me. ” 

He hesitated a moment, then decided to let the interruption 
stand. 

“ I will go, ” was his answer, “ for I know not what more to 
say except that, though I shall never marry, I shall hold all 
women de^r for your sweet sake. I thank God, even as it is, 
that I have been permitted to know you. Farewell. ” 

He refrained from all mockery of leave-taking, and had 
.turned to depart, but Margery stretched out her hand with tears 
in her eyes. 

“One word more You do this in obedience to your cousin’s 
action? I know he loved me nobly, but not nobly enough to be 
willing that I should be happy in my own way.” 

John grasped the extended hand. I cannot trust myself to ex- 
plain, ” he said, “ but I will leave you this. ” 

He drew Gilbert’s letter out of his pocket and put it on the 
table beside her. 

“ It will teach you to know Gilbert better. ” 

Then he bowed his head and for one passionate moment 
pressed his lips against the hand that he still held. The next 
Margery heard the house door close upon him. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

WEIGHED, BUT NOT FOUND WANTING ^ 

Ten days after John Cartwright’s interview with Margery 
Denison, Gilbert paid one of his rare visits to Elm Lodge. It 
had become a custom when the friends wanted to meet that 
John should give himself a holiday by going to Rookluirst. 

Life often seems to repeat itself. It was just such a day of 
gloom and fog as when the boy had first made his unfamiliar 


WEIGHED, BUT NOT FOUND WANTING. 


233 


journey from his uncle’s shop to his house, and the latter was 
gas- illumined now as then. Also when Gilbert entered the 
dining-room the recollection of that time was brought back 
vividly to his mind. 

No alteration had been made in the apartment ; the furniture 
stood precisely in the same places — Mrs. Cartwright not being 
bitten with the tarantula of change. The fire burned with the 
same splendid prodigality ; the rocking-chairs faced each other 
as of old, and even the accustomed stocking was rolled up on the 
bracket. He stood for a moment warming himself at the blaze 
and watching the door for the entrance of the mistress of the 
house, recalling with an almost painful precision the sense of 
anxiety and desolation with which he had watched and waited 
then. But after all it had been the threshold of a new and 
better life ; it had given him the friend whose strength had but- 
tressed his weakness and whose love had taught unselfishness to 
his own. 

Perhaps there was not much more cordiality in Mrs. Cart- 
wright’s greeting on this occasion than on the former one, of 
which his mind was full ; for whatever else had softened, it was 
to her distrust and jealousy of Gilbert Yorke. 

He had come not to see her, of course, but her son ; and she 
told him, without any compunction, that John was absent from 
home — had been so for some days on official business, and that, 
therefore, his object would be lost. 

“But my uncle — of course I called in to see him as I passed — 
told me that he was expected home to-day. I am come to throw 
myself on your hospitality — to ask you to let me occupy my old 
room to-night, and not to begrudge Jack and me a talk over the 
fire. ” 

His manner and smile were delightful, but Mrs. Cartwright 
had always succeeded in hardening her heart against the charm. 

“John will be very tired,” was her answer. “He is over- 
tasked with work and responsibility of all kinds, and whenever 
you seek him it is to make a demand of some kind or another. 
However, ” with a reluctant smile, “ I can scarcely refuse your 
request. ” ^ 

And so it happened that towards midnight the cousins found 
1 themselves together in the familiar “ spare -room, ” a generous 
li fire blazing in the grate, and the historical chair wheeled within 
I its range. Gilbert had insisted, as in their boyish days, upon 
; John occupying it, while he himself stood restlessly leaning 


234 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


against the high mantel or taking a tour of inspection through 
the room. They had heard the doors of the house closed and 
bolted one after the other, and now the silence and solitude 
reigned for which Gilbert’s soul had longed. He had turned 
out the gas-jet which filled the room with light, so that there 
was now no other illumination than that supplied by the cheerful 
fiames of the fire. 

Johns sat taciturn, as was often his habit, and that he was tired 
and overtasked was evidently no figment of maternal anxiety ; 
but there was no sullenness in his silence. The mind of each 
was heavy and depressed, but none the less the old magnetic 
rapport was felt between them. Gilbert broke the silence by 
saying ; 

“You do not ask me what has brought me here to-day. It 
would make it easier if you would. ” 

“ I do not ask, because I thought I understood. You wish to 
know more than my letter told you and as John answered, he 
lifted up his eyes heavy with sleepless nights and days of tor- 
ment, for on his impassioned and tenacious spirit the yoke of 
renunciation still pressed sorely. 

“Scarcely that!” said Gilbert sharply. “I have news to give 
you ; my engagement is broken off, at least my cousin writes to 
tell me that I am a free man. ” 

John neither spoke nor moved. Inwardly he flinched under 
the announcement as if a blow had struck him, while at the 
same time he condemned himself for doing so. Could any event 
separate him farther from Margery than he had separated him- 
self? And if so, why did he shrink as if hot iron had touched 
his flesh, at the news which made it possible that the man for 
whose sake mainly he had resisted his temptation might make 
his profit of the sacrifice? 

“ Tell me about it, ” he said in a low, stifled voice ; “ it was not 
your doing?” 

“ Indirectly it was my doing ;” and Gilbert explained that 
Philipa based her resolution on the discovery of the copy of his 
own letter. 

John asked. Have you decided to take her at hei^ word?” 

“ That would scarcely be the course that honour would exact ; 
I go up to-morrow to see my cousin — to give what explanations 
I can, and to try and reconcile her to carry out our engagement. 
My aunt will not fail to help me.” 

“You mean that you are anxious to effect a reconciliation?” 


WEIGHED, BUT NOT FOUND WANTING. 


235 


There was a feverish eagerness in John’s mind, for which he 
hated himself, and which communicated itself to his voice. 

Gilbert looked at him in surprise. “What is wrong between 
us ?” he asked. “ Are you suspecting me of the baseness of turn- 
ing this to any account against you? If I find I can take my 
freedom honourably, I^will take it and thank God ; but it cannot 
make a hair’s breadth of difference to the position in which you 
stand to Miss Denison. ” 

He stopped, but the other did not answer. 

“In that case,” he resumed, “I should shut up Rookhurst for 
the short tenure that will be left to me and go — well farther 
afield that I have yet been. My plans are scarcely fixed. I 
shall not come back. Jack, till I am sure of myself, and am able 
to witness the happiness that I still find it'hard to wish you. Do 
you ask more of poor human nature than this?” 

“I do not ask so much. What need of more words? You 
have had my letter ; have I failed to make you understand that 
there is nothing between us?” 

“ But there will be ! You cannot stand by your denial and 
make her miserable in vain ; what profit is there in such a 
sacrifice? It is to say' this as much as the other that I am come. 
The best turn you can do me. Jack, is to make her happy for 
whom I would lay down my life.” 

To this again there was no immediate reply. John Cart- 
wright’s figure seemed to shrink still farther into the depths 
of the chair in which he sat, with his elbow on its arm, and 
his chin propped on his hand, and the fire-light falling full upon 
his face. Its aspect was at once stern and haggard, the dark 
eyes glowing like live coals in the midst of its pallour. As Gil- 
bert spoke, a momentary spasm contracted his features ; it was 
as if all the kingdoms of the world and the glory of them had 
been set before him by the Tempter, and that he lacked the 
courage to cry, “ Retro me Satanas!” Then, suddenly he 
stretched out his hand and grasped Gilbert’s. 

“ Let us leave all this, ” he said in a husky voice. “ I cannot 
trust myself to-night — nor in the morning either. Go and see 
your cousin, as you propose, and I will meet you at Rookhurst 
when you come back. For the rest, there never was a time 
since I knew you when you did not set me lessons hard to 
learn !” 

He got up without waiting for an answer, and went out to his 
own room. 


236 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


The reception given by Mrs. Yorke to her nephew was one of 
condemnation held in discreet reserve. The fact that he had 
come at all mollified her, and she did not wish to alienate his 
good-will. As he arrived late, Gilbert saw no one but his aunt, 
Philipa having gone to her room, and Edward, of course, never 
assuming the duties of a host. Mrs. Yorke suggested that there 
should be no discussion of the matter that had brought him 
until the morning, but the young man’s anxiety was such he 
could not help questioning her about Philipa’ s state of feeling, 
and the chances of a reconciliation. 

“On that point,” said Mrs. Yorke austerely, “she herself is 
the only one that can inform you. I can only say that she feels 
very strongly. I do not think I should have induced her to ex- 
plain the circumstance that had led her to act as she has done, 
but unfortunately her brother w^as acquainted with the facts, 
or rather he has been her informant and instigator throughout. 
You will not wonder he has no love for you, and even he could 
detect and resent your indifference to his sister. ” 

“An indifference of which I had made no secret to his 
mother!” rejoined Gilbert, with hashing eyes. “To my mind it 
had appeared an obstacle not to be overcome, but she judged 
otherwise. ” 

“I grant it,” said Mrs. Yorke quietly. “My daughter’s regard 
for you and the family conditions justified me in the course I 
adopted. We all know what a young man’s first love is worth ; 
it was as much for your own sake as for hers that I declined to 
sacrifice substance to shadow. ” Then, with contemptuous bit- 
terness she added : “ What is to be said of the discretion, even 
the honour of a man who throws about to be picked up by ser- 
vants such damaging evidence of his folly as you have done? 
My son’s valet brought the precious effusion to his master, and 
the brother communicated with the sister. The child wrote to 
you in the first heat of wounded feeling, without even con- 
sulting me.” 

“Such conduct was in every way worthy of my cousin 
Edward, ” replied Gilbert, with a calmness that gave the greater 
effect to his words. “I am sorry that I have made Philipa 
unhappy, but I am glad that she knows the truth — that is, if we 
are to become man and wife.” 

Mrs. Yorke softened. “It is still your wish and intention to 
try and persuade her to this?” 

“It is my intention, ” he said, fiushing deeply. “I have never 


WEIGHED, BUT NOT FOUND WANTING. 


237 

deceived you as to the direction in which my wishes lie. ” And 
at this point Mrs. Yorke thought it best to close the conversation 
and dismiss her nephew to his room. 

But the next day brought unexpected complications. Philipa 
positively refused to grant Gilbert Yorke an interview, and 
Edward shrilly and eagerly backed her resolution. He was as 
quite afraid as his sister that her steadfastness might not be 
proof against her cousin’s solicitations, and the dread of being 
disappointed in respect to Gilbert’s forfeiture of the inheritance 
transported him to the verge of madness. Even the wary and 
dispassionate Mrs. Yorke lost her patience under these provoca- 
tions ; she reproached her son bitterly for his share in bringing 
about the present state of things, and tried, what had never 
keen known to fail before, the direct exercise, of her authority 
over her daughter ; but though Philipa wept, she was firm. 

“ This once, ” she said, “ you must let me have my own way. 
My mind is quite made up. If he were to beg me on his knees, 
I would refuse ; knowing his motive, I would refuse, mother, if 
you were to turn me out of doors for refusing ! I would die 
rather than marry him !” 

Her pale cheeks flamed, and her beautiful grey eyes were 
distended with passion and pain. She had never looked so 
handsome in her life, and Mrs. Yorke sighed, wishing that 
Gilbert could have seen her. 

“ Why have you brought him here ?” pursued the girl in a 
strained, unnatural voice. “Send him away, mother, if — if 
you have any love or pity left. The thought of his pity almost 
kills me.” 

Mrs. Yorke recognised reluctantly that nothing was to be done 
with her — at present, at any rate. Her own mind was greatly 
exasperated ; she resented almost equally Gilbert’s carelessness, 
Fletcher’s dishonest meddling, and Edward’s selfish action. 
The anguish of poor Philipa softened her heart towards her. 

From Philipa she went to her son’s room, drawn thither by 
the sound of his voice in shrill, excited outburst, and before 
entering she paused at the door to listen. 

Accustomed as she was to the coarse violence of his language 
under provocation, she was yet startled and distressed at some 
of the phrases that assailed her ears, and at the pitch of excite- 
ment he seemed to have reached. It was evident that Gilbert 
was with him, and that he was pouring out on his head the 
foul vials of his wrath and hate without restraint of any sort. 


238 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


Mrs. Yorke opened the door with a trembling hand, her fear 
being lest the object of such insult should turn upon his assailant 
and chastise him. 

But her first glance at Gilbert showed her she had no ground 
for apprehension, although the sight of him stabbed her heart 
with a new pang, almost more keen than that which it had 
superseded. It was not so much the young man’s handsome 
face and figure which the contrast offered by her unhappy son 
threw into strong relief, but it was the aspect of moral dignity 
. — the sort of compassionate aloofness with which he stood re- 
garding the infiamed and distorted countenance of his cousin. 

“You make me shiver,” he said at last, for she had entered so 
quietly that neither heard her ; “ a mind like yours makes its 
hell in advance. If you had not hated me I must have been 
hateful. ” 

Edward’s answer was a snarl of baffled rage, for the words 
with their bell-like distinctness of utterance and the absence of 
all passion in the speaker drove him to frenzy ! He was on the 
point of another outbreak, when Mrs. Yorke stepped forward and 
announced herself. 

“I think,” she said, facing her nephew with an effort, “that 
it would be well, Gilbert, for you to leave the room — our poor 
Edward is scarcely responsible for this violence of temper. It 
is a sort of hysteria beyond moral control. Also as a brother, 
his provocation has been very great. Shall we agree to say 
farewell? Your presence troubles us all.” 

“That is just as you please. I am willing to wait longer in 
the hope that Philipa may consent to see me, or to go at once 
if you think that best. ” 

“ I think it best that you should go. The matter is finished !” 

She had led the way out of Edward’s room and had paused, 
as on a former occasion, to speak a few last words in the hall. 

“This matter is finished !” she repeated, “and it may be that I 
have been the most to blame. I bear you no malice, Gilbert !” 

“ But you do not mean to disown me, ” he said, with a real 
anxiety, and taking her hand affectionately. “Remember that 
— I have no mother !” 

“ And I no son, you might say” (her lips 'trembled. ) Gilbert 
put the hand he held to his lips with a quiet sympathy that 
softened her more than words. Her eyes were full of tears when 
she spoke again. “ At least let it be understood that we do not 
part in anger. If Philipa should come to a better mind ” 


WEIGHED, BUT NOT FOUND WANTING. 


239 


She hesitated, seeing the colour rush into his face, and added : 
“ But no, that would not be fair to you. I have already said — 
the matter is finished.” 

“ I am going abroad, ” said Gilbert, “ for a year or two, but I 
will wait at Rookhurst for one month from now to hear from 
you. If Philipa sends for me within that time, I will come. ” 

And on this understanding they parted. 

Souls, like bodies, have their distinct individuality. It had 
cost John Cartwright a struggle of desperate severity, calling 
into play all the resources of his strength before he had accepted 
the necessity of renunciation. Gilbert Yorke, after a moment’s 
pause of hesitation, had consented to risk anew the freedom to 
which he clung with passionate desire, moved by the tears in a 
woman’s eyes. 

The month that Gilbert Yorke spent at Rookhurst brought 
with it new and deeper experiences. He had gone to see John, 
and to Fair Lawns against the advice of his physician, because 
it had seemed to him a point of honour to do so. The conse- 
quence was that he had so increased the mischief in his knee 
that absolute rest had become a matter not of precaution but of 
necessity. Through the long winter days, brightened only by 
the assiduities of his attached servant, and the visits of his 
medical attendant, Gilbert had plenty of time to review the 
past and forecast the future. The infiuence of his ancestral sur- 
roundings and the memory of his grandfather made themselves 
felt with a strength they had never seemed to possess before. 
Now that he had absolutely relinquished the hopes tha thad made 
life beautiful, he began to ask himself what better course was 
open to him than to fulfill the destiny appointed him by Sir Owen 
Yorke ? Undoubtedly he owed to him a heavy debt of gratitude, 
for whatever his shortcomings and transgressions towards others 
had been, the worldly old man had loaded his grandson with 
benefits. Was he justified in thrusting from him the responsi- 
bilities which had been so deliberately imposed? 

The thought of his father stricken down in early manhood, an 
alien from his birthright, and the adored mother who had so 
passionately deplored the ruin which the love of her had brought 
with it, quickened the growing sense. His own restitution to 
the family honours would have been balm and healing to those 
wounds which had bled to death. Besides, in a life , bereft of 
the blessedness he had sought, it was necessary to put something 
in its place, if moral and mental collapse were to be avoided — 


240 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


something that would brace and fortify the spirit better than 
abandonment to an adored art ; and what so powerful as duty? 

The duty of administering a large property wisely and well ; 
the duty of cherishing and encouraging the gentle girl who 
loved him ; the duty of giving practical proof that his friend’s 
gain should not prove his own irremediable loss. To this mind 
Gilbert Yorke brought himself not easily or at once, but by the 
slow illuminating process of self -judgment, nursed in solitude. 
There was also a subtle reflex influence from long association 
with John Cartwright ; words that he had spoken, still more 
the silent acts which are so much more potent than words ; the 
tune, as it were, to which he had set his life stimulated and 
confirmed Gilbert’s nobler purpose. 

So, when at last the expected letter from Fair Lawns came 
into his hands, though his face whitened and his heart beat 
quicker, his resolution to face the situation and to respond 
loyally to the expected summons never faltered for a moment. 

But it is the experience of life that events seem to mock our 
prescience. We tax endurance to meet the misfortune that never 
happens, and smile incredulously at another which overwhelms 
us unawares. Loins are girded and sinews braced for the con- 
flict when the fiat comes that our strength is to sit still, while 
the veterans, reposing after the heat and labour of the day, 
hears the sudden call to arms, and springs erect to buckle on 
the armour scarcely laid aside. 

And again : there are those amongst us whom the gods love — 
for whom the valleys are exalted and the rough places made 
plain ; and to this category Gilbert Yorke belonged. 

He had nerved himself to the double duty of accepting his 
inheritance and of marrying his cousin, not because the one 
depended on the other, but because she loved him, and the 
sacrifice of self which had seemed so costly to the young man 
as he had bound it to the altar was given back to him unscathed. 

Mrs. Yorke wrote to repeat what she had said before — “the 
matter is finished. ” Philipa adhered to her resolution with a 
firmness not to be shaken by any consideration which her mother 
could put before her. She sent her love and best wishes to her 
cousin Gilbert, and with these gifts she sent the assurance that 
he was absolutely free, and might make use of his freedom with- 
out self-reproach or blame from her. In proof of good-will, he 
was to come and see them at Fair Lawns as soon as he returned 
from his travels. 


A MIDNIGHT KEVELATION. 


241 


Gilbert read the letter twice through ; as he put it dowu, the 
slanting rays of the setting sun poured a pale opalescent glory 
over the wide prospect of park and garden, pasture and snow- 
tipped hills which his window afforded. Far as his eye could 
reach and farther still beyond his vision, he was master of all ; 
and not of these only, but also of the splendid appanage of the 
Appledore estates and the cosy little mansion until the hour 
struck which fulfilled the year of probation fixed by the will 
of Sir Owen Yorke. 

To say he felt no regret as this thought pressed on his mind 
would be to say that Gilbert Yorke was stock or stone, but cer- 
tain it is that after the first instinctive pang of recognition, he 
felt the deprivation as little as it was possible for a young man 
to do. 

The means left him would be enough for his wants. The joy 
of travel was before him, and the stern duty of forgetting the 
wife of his friend — for that John would ultimately overcome his 
generous scruples and marry Margery, Gilbert felt assured. 

As for the joys of life, his violin leaned against the corner of 
the wall and the wide world of musical art was his to enter 
in and possess it. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

A MIDNIGHT REVELATION. 

John Cartwright had not gone to Rookhurst, as had been 
proposed. He had been sent into Cornwall by the heads of his 
church, charged with a mission of inspection over a large out- 
lying district which had broken loose from the bonds in which 
it had been held by the Connexion ever since the days of Wesley 
and Whitfield. The season was inclement and the duties some- 
what severe, but John had embraced the commission with 
avidity. 

Love and sorrow were still at strife within him, defying the 
authority with which he ordered them to submission. The 
sight of Margery Denison in her pew at Castle Street Chapel 
produced a suffocating conflict, which left the victor wan and 
exhausted, and drew upon him — not as before his mother’s 
urgent questioning, but what was still harder to bear — the re- 
proach of her silence and watchful tenderness. It would be 
16 


242 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


well, therefore, to embrace the opportunity of escape ; absence 
might — must help him. 

The night before his departure an incident occurred which 
was to change the currrent of his life. He had gone to bed late, 
which was becoming a habit, for he had been striving to set 
heart and life in order before he entered upon his appointed ser- 
vice. There was no hesitation of purpose or wish to draw back 
from the position he had taken, but he was not satisfied with 
results produced by the coercion of will ; he held the victory 
not to be gained until inclination yielded also and made him 
content to forego what he had resolved to forego. Moreover, it 
was necessary for a man pledged as he was to the divine race, 
to lay aside absolutely the clogs and hindrances of earthly pas- 
sion and regret, not to rest in the mere recognition of them as 
such. “This woman I have loved,” he said to himself, “but I 
shall never love any other. I will take the pain and the loss as 
experience that may help me to feel for others. ” 

He went to bed at last and slept soundly for an hour or two ; 
then he awoke with a sudden curious consciousness that he was 
not alone, and, as he held his breath and lay quite still to 
verify the impression, he became aware that his mother was 
kneeling by his bedside. 

He had the habit of drawing up his blind the last thing at 
night ; and the moon, now at the full, was riding high over the 
house-tops in the cold, cloudless wintry heavens — clearer than 
at any other hour in the twenty -four — and fiooding the room 
with light. 

The light fell on the face of the kneeling figure, raised in an 
ecstasy of supplication, and the beauty and spiritual elevation 
of that face, familiar from infancy as it was, struck upon the 
son’s sense with a new force. The white woollen wrapper that 
she wore and the loosened masses of her magnificent hair gave to 
it an aspect of softness and relaxation which touched those deep 
springs of tenderness which had been too often checked by the 
habitual air of sternness and repression. 

John instantly perceived first that she supposed him to be 
asleep, and then that self-consciousness was lost in exaltation of 
feeling. He shrank almost equally from his involuntary tres- 
pass upon her communion with God and from the painful duty 
of warning her that he was awake, and while he deliberated, 
her prayer became vocal and compelled him to silence. 

“I acknowledge my sin,” was her cry — “the sin of blindness 


A MIDNIGHT REVELATION. 


243 


and self-will, but visit me not in judgment ! I am unworthy 
of what thy goodness hath vouchsafed, but the thing which my 
soul longs for is still denied. Give me, O God, the heart that 
I have hardened against me, and the grace to find favour with 
my son !” 

She stopped, for a sob choked her, then resumed : 

“ Break down the barrier thas I have built up ; chasten me as 
Thou wilt if only the life of my life is strengthened and con- 
soled. ” 

John could contain himself no longer. He sprang up, calling 
upon her name with a sudden passionate cry, and holding out 
his arms to embrace her. 

For one moment the pride of years and the sharp pain of a 
reserved spirit, wounded where it is most sensitive, bound the 
flow of Rachel Cartwright’s feelings; but the next her son’s 
dark head was on her bosom, his lips against her cheek, and 
each was clasped in the other’s arms so closely that heart beat 
against heart. 

Let us drop the curtain over that sacred hour of union, where 
the mother poured out her confession at the feet of the son, 
and the son took half the burden of the passionate blame upon 
himself, and forgave as he hoped to be forgiven. When the 
first strong emotions had subsided, John put the seal upon 
their reconciliation by the disclosure of his love for Margery 
Denison ; he kept nothing back, though such new confidence was 
difficult, and a thousand manly shames and tender scruples 
urged their plea of secresy. 

But his mother sat on the side of his bed, her hand clasped in 
his and her tender eyes following his half-reluctant story with 
a sympathy so prompt and intimate as to give him the courage 
he had lacked at first, and the first draught of that power of 
consolation for which she had prayed. 

When she was quite sure he had told all, she said in a low 
voice of exquisite gentleness, “ Do not let hs deceive ourselves 
at the beginning. I undertsand you to mean that it is not for 
my sake that you give up Margery Denison— that if no exacting 
mother existed you would still do the same? ” 

‘‘Yes, that is right. I give her up for her own sake and for 
mine, as I have explained, and, still more, I give her up for 
the sake of Gilbert Yorke. ” 

It was a proof of the radical change of mood and mind that 
Mrs. Cartwright heard these words and made no protest. For a 


^44 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


few minutes longer she sat silent, with her eyes on the ground ; 
the moon was setting and it was difficult to distinguish her 
face. Then she said : 

‘‘ It was a tribute to her own \vorth that she loved you, John, 
but I think you have done right. She is generous and very 
winning, but there is too much of worldly alloy in her nature 
to fit her to fight the fight to which you are pledged, and not 
to count the cost. If only it may be given me to do my poor 
part to make up for what you lose ! You will not shut your 
heart against me — ever again?” 

“ Never, so help me God ! I am consoled already. ” 

He pressed her closer. “You will take cold. My father will 
wake up and be frightened. You must promise on your side 
to submit to my authority — I must send you away !” 

She lingered a little longer ; then rose to go, stooping to kiss 
him before she went. 

John caught her hands and pressed them passionately to his lips. 

“ I feel like a child again, ” he said, “ and yet as a child I was 
never so happy as now. It is not a dream, mother?” 

“ No, ” she answered with a smile more pathetic than tears, 
“ it is not a dream ; we are awake now for the first time in our 
lives. ” 

John returned home fortified and refreshed. The keen pure 
air, the exhilarating ocean, the utter change of scene and char- 
acter, the practical exercise of the religion to which he was 
devoted, and, more than all, the life-giving remembrance of his 
mother as she at last disclosed herself wdiich abode with him 
night and day, invigorated and warmed his heart. He became 
able to recall the idea of Margery without shrinking as from a 
touch of torture, and to forecast her future as Gilbert’s wife in 
the temper of a noble acquiescence rather than of voluntary 
martyrdom. 

On his return after a month’s absence, he felt an acute anxiety 
as to the manner in which his mother would receive him ; lest 
any of that distance and coldness which had marred their lives 
hitherto should have crept again between them. But the first 
moment of meeting dispelled the apprehension ; the light in her 
eyes, the smile on her lips, the tones of her voice, told him that 
not only was all that he wanted waiting for his acceptance, but 
that there remained depths of comprehension and tenderness 
which to fathom might be the business of his lifetime and to 
exhaust was impossible. 


A MIDNIGHT REVELATION. 


245 


Martin Cartwright, genial and cheerful as was his wont, re- 
ceived an impression that he scarcely understood, and made no 
attempt to analyse from the new sweeetness and serenity in his 
wife, basking in the deeper peace and happiness of his home as 
unconsciously as a cat in the sunshine. It delighted the good 
man’s heart that his eyes could rest upon his son in his accus- 
tomed place again and looking so much better for the change. 

“There were those who thought the work and the climate at 
such a season as this would have been too much for you, John, 
he said, “but to my mind hard work always agrees with the 
best amongst us; aye, mother?” 

The mother and son exchanged looks of loving intelligence, and 
Martin Cartwright, who was brim full of local gossip and not 
quite so much interested in the report of the Cornish miners, 
poured forth the flood upon John’s head as they sat at supper. 

“ I wanted to write to thee, lad, but the mother objected. 

' Good news, ’ she said, ‘ can always wait and it would be a pity 
to divert your mind from the work, ’ but you shall have it now ! 
I suppose that news must be good which helps the fortunes of 
Gilbert Yorke? Eh, but he’s a lucky dog!” 

And with this preamble, he went on to explain in detail, 
what we will sum up in a few words. 

The information given was in respect to Sir Owen Yorke’ s 
will, and the informant had been no less an authority than the 
old lawyer, Mr. Percival himself, who was also the solicitor em- 
ployed by Martin Cartwright. A matter of business had brought 
them recently together, and it was natural enough that the con-' 
versation should drift to the affairs of Gilbert Yorke, and his 
position as it now stood under his grandfather’s will. 

All the county had known the terms of the will and had been 
equally informed of the engagement between the cousins, and 
of the speedy rupture that followed on the engagement. The 
announcement of the latter fact had been very explicitly made, 
and was qualified by the statement that it was entirely due to 
the action of the lady, quite independent of any personal con- 
siderations as touching the young man’s integrity and honour. 
Mr. Percival informed his client that this paragraph had been 
inspired by himself after consultation with Miss Yorke. He 
had been summoned to Fair Lawns by her mother in the hope 
that he might be able to bring the young lady to another mind, 
but he found her obdurate, and had thereupon been obliged to 
act upon the necessity of making her determination to reject 


246 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


her cousin as public and unmistakable as the announcement of 
their engagement. 

“ It appears not to have been generally understood, ” the lawyer 
had added, “that Gilbert Yorke inherits under his grandfather’s 
will if he is prepared to fulfil his part of the contract, the lady’s 
obstinacy notwithstanding. The clause in the will is intention- 
ally obscure according to the design of the testator, and its 
meaning seems to have been missed by every member of the 
family. Even the young man himself does not appear to be 
aware of it, but has taken himself off to the ends of the earth. ” 

“I do not believe,” said John, “that Gilbert ever took the 
trouble to read his grandfather’s will. Mr. Percival sent him a 
statement of its conditions when he was ill in Vienna, from 
which this saving clause was entirely excluded, and he accepted 
it implicitly without any attempt at verification. ” 

“But you are pleased, John?” questioned his father. 

“More than pleased. I rejoice with all my heart.” He 
looked towards his mother and smiled. “It will make things 
easier for Gilbert. ” He cast over the matter anxiously in his 
mind as he sat over his bed-room fire. 

It appeared to him precisely such a benefaction as his 
friend’s disinterestedness deserved; one which he would himself 
have delighted to bestow had the power been his. 

When Gilbert returned sooner or later from his travels, still 
true to the love of his youth, what more inevitable than that 
Margery should yield at length to the power of this fidelity when 
the great obstacle which had stood between them was removed? 

As for her feeling towards himself, it still appeared to him 
one of those problems presented by the inexplicable mystery of 
a woman’s nature. Knight-errantry was not confined to the 
one sex. She loved him (or thought that she did) because 
he had saved her life ; because few loved him, and society at 
large held him to be unlovable and obscure, or because in her 
moments of spiritual concern for herself or others she had found 
help and comfort in his words ; or, again, because the friend, 
dear to him as his own soul had made her think him to be 
something very different from what he really was. 

Whereas Gilbert himself — here the thinker paused with a smile 
of tender reminiscence, which yet had a dash of self-mockery 
in it. 

“ Let her only take his friend at the vlaue he put upon him, 
and there would be nothing left for even a lover to desire !” 


THE DIVIDING OF THE WAYS. 


247 


CHAPTER XL. 

THE DIVIDING OF THE WAYS. 

A DAY or two after John’s return, Mrs. Cartwright received 
an unexpected visitor from Margery Denison. Such calls had 
frequently been made before, but some months had now elapsed 
since the two women had met. Mrs Cartwright was alone, for 
the men of her household were both engaged in their respective 
callings, and, while thankful that it was so, she felt a complex 
embarrassment at the prospect of the inter ivew. 

The maid had shown the visitor into ^ the drawing-room, a 
stiff, comfortless apartment seldom used by the family, and 
where on this occasion no fire was burning, so that the hostess 
went at once to fetch Margery into the cheerful warmth of the 
familiar dining-room, and with her somewhat formal and old- 
fashioned courtesy not only placed her in her own easy chair, 
but brought a cushion for her feet. 

“ Loosen your furs, my dear, ” she said, “ or you will find no 
benefit from them when you go out and as she spoke, she 
offered her own services with a softness of voice and manner 
that struck the keen perceptions of the girl as significant. 

In truth, as Mrs. Cartwright looked at her and recognised not 
only the beauty that distinguished her, but the alluring grace 
of expression, voice, and gesture, she was conscious of a mo- 
mentary sense of triumph that such a woman should love her 
son, and of doubt whether it were absolutely necessary that such 
a love should be put aside on the grounds of duty or of friend- 
ship. She comprehended the difficulty of her son’s renunciation 
as she had never done before, and asked herself with a sharp 
anxiety whether it would indeed be in her own power to make 
amends and to console. 

Margery caught the hand that was busy with the fastenings 
of her cloak. 

“ What has happened ?” she demanded in her direct and slightly 
imperious way. “ There is a different look in your eyes and a 
new tone in your voice. Ah, I see ! You know our secret?” 

Our secret! Rachel Cartwright winced a little, then con- 
quered the weakness. 

“ Yes, ” she said in a tone full of sensibility, “ for it is better 
to be honest — I know it. It satisfies my pride that you should 


248 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


love my son, and warms my heart towards you. Bear with 
me if I say that you do yourself as much honour as him. ” 

Margery continued to sit looking up into the speaker’s face 
with the intense transherent gaze her blue eyes had retained 
from her childhood, while a half-smile of mockery touched her 
lips. It seemed as if she were bent on reading the secrets of 
the mother’s heart. 

“Will you give him to me then?” she asked, in vioce so 
charged with passionate feeling that it startled Mrs. Cartwright. 
Was it with such an accent that she had spoken to her son and 
he had been strong enough to resist? 

“ My dear, ” was her answer, “ I would give him what is best 
for him at any cost of personal feeling, but I would refuse him 
his heart’s desire if I thought it put his soul in peril.” 

“But why should it do that?” asked Margery. “If he has 
made you his confidant, he has told you that I am willing to 
give up the pomps and vanities of this wicked world, and to 
take up the service to which he is pledged. In a word, to fol- 
low where he leads. I would prove to you that Margery Deni- 
son could make as good a wife for a Wesleyan minister, who 
has the devotion of a saint with the humility of a child, as any 
shallow, pious girl you might choose for him out of his congre- 
gation. ” Her eyes flashed. “ I at least am able to understand 
what I love, and have enough experience of other men to gauge 
John Cartwright’s difference ! I was even willing to conform 
myself to the jealousy of your affection. ” 

And you would have made shipwreck of his life and of your 
own !” returned the other in a tone of subdued but intense con- 
viction. “I know that you are a noble woman, and I estimate 
every grace and gift which makes you one amongst a thousand, 
so that I marvel where my son found the courage to address or 
the strength to resist you. And yet I marvel not ! Only the 
purpose to lead the divine life which is not founded on the love 
of God and on the humility that comes of deep conviction of 
sin, is like the house that was built upon the sand. You would 
soon have flagged in a race that taxes hard the endurance of the 
faithful soldiers of our Lord. I see it all so plainly ! Weari- 
ness and impatience would have followed when you watched the 
unabated zeal with which he pursued objects which had become 
flat and tiresome to you. You could not help begrudging his 
devotion, and you would have tried to wean his heart from* God 
in order that he might love you more. ” 


THE DIVIDING OF THE WAYS. 


249 


“And you have told him this and strengthened his purpose? 
Was it your doing that he went away?” 

“ I have spoken no word of all this, and his purpose needed no 
strengthening. He loved you too well to risk the chance of 
your disappointment. My dear, ” she added with extreme gen- 
tleness, resting her hands lightly on the girl’s shoulders and 
looking into the proud, downcast face, “you would surely have 
been disappointed ! Our ways are not as your ways, and many 
a natural instinct and innocent desire would have cried out for 
indulgence and met no response. ” 

Margery rose from her seat and looked steadily at her com- 
panion, lifting her eyes with a sort of reluctance. As the two 
women stood thus it appeared that they were both of the same 
height, and that the beauty and dignity of each were almost 
equal, except [that the one had the splendid advantage of the 
bloom of youth. 

“I ask you again,” said Margery, “what has happened? You 
look and speak — unlike yourself ! I know that you have always 
loved your son, but — you let it appear ! Has this — this trouble 
of ours, for I know that he has suffered, brought you two closer 
together? If so, I am glad.” 

It was not possible for Mrs. Cartwright to belie the reticence 
of her nature. She contented herself with a gesture of assent, 
and the colour rose in her face. 

Margery continued to watch her, then suddenly turned aside 
and began to refasten her cloak. 

“ I think, ” she said, “ I shall be able to trust you to be good to 
him, and I am glad that you know. ” She paused for her heart 
was sore, and she did not wish her voice to betray her. “ I did 
not come here, ” she continued, with a gleam of pathetic humour 
lighting up her .face, “ to engage your good offices with your 
son. If I had, I see I should have failed, but I had taken my 
dismissal before— I am not of the sort to do othei’wise. Do you 
not wonder why I came to see the mother of the man who had 
refused me?” 

“ It was gracious and sweet of you to come whatever might 
be your object. ” 

“ My object was to bid you good-bye and to give you a message 
for your son. I might have put it differently had you not 
known and spoken as you have done, but now the same words I 
have just used will seiwe for him. Tell him — I accept my dis- 
missal. He has nothing to fear for me. ” 


250 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


“My dear, do not speak like that! You fill me with distress 
and shame. My son will love you to the last hour of his life. 
He is not one of those who lets go. ” 

Margery drew a deep breath. “And perhaps I am ! I do not 
know. Anyway, my dream of being a good woman is over ; 
bear that on your conscience when you pray !” 

“ I have no fears, ” said Mrs. Cartwright tenderly. “ You will 
make some other life noble.” 

Margery smiled a little bitterly. “ What will be, will be, ” she 
answered. “ Meantime my aunt and I start for the Riviera to • 
morrow. Her health requries the warm southern sunshine, and 
so does mine. We are going to Monaco. I thought it right 
that you should know. ” 

She stopped rather suddenly, and Mrs. Cartwright asked : 

“But you are surely coming back again?” 

“Oh, yes, after some time. My aunt likes The Hollies and 
looks upon it as home, but we may travel for a time. We have 
been stay-at-homes so long. ” 

“May we ever hope to hear from you?” 

“I think not ; I am a poor letter- writer, hut you will know of 
course when we are coming back. We leave a trustworthy 
care-taker, but we shall like to feel that our landlord also will 
safe -guard our house. And now, farewell 1” She held out her 
hand. 

“ Do not detain me ! I want no escort, ” she added in reply to 
some suggestion from the other. “ My pony-carriage is at the 
hotel, and I can walk back there quite as well as I came. ” 

Mrs. Cartwright looked at her with softened eyes. 

“May I kiss you?” she asked almost timidly. “I feel as if 
we were treating a generous benefactor with base ingratitude. ” 

“I think so too,” returned the girl, with a, smile half sad, 
half humourous, “but I forgive you! You both follow your 
conscience, and I have remarked that this habit leaves^ little 
room for loving-kindness or tender mercy. ” 

She allowed lier hostess to kiss her, but did not return the 
salute. 

“ I will go now, ” she said. “ Do not come with me to the door 
or ring for a servant, but we will part friends. I wish well to 
all who sleep — or wake under this roof to-night !” 

Her fortitude was to be put to a further strain that morning. 
As she walked towards the town she saw John Cartwright ap- 
proaching from the opposite direction so that a recontre was 


THE DIVIDING OF THE WAYS. 


251 


unavoidable. Such was her frame of mind that she would 
gladly have escaped it had it been possible, but as it was not, 
she accepted the inevitable. 

As they neared each other John glanced towards her with 
deep anxiety, as if wishing to guide his conduct according to 
her initiative. Margery with her keen vision saw that he had 
flushed and paled at the sight of her, but she saw, too, with 
equal distinctness that his eyes had lost the strained look of 
secret trouble which they had worn when they last met and 
parted. 

“ The colour rose into her own cheek, and a throb of indigna- 
tion made her eyes flash and gave an added dignity to the poise 
of her flgure. 

Her thought was, “ How soon these good men reconcile them- 
selves to their duty !” 

When they were within a few paces of each other the young 
man raised his hat with a bow so deep as to be almost reveren- 
tial, and which served to quicken the irritation of Margery’s 
excited mood. She would have passed with a courteous but 
stately inclination of the head had not John forestalled her 
intention by speaking : 

“You are alone. May I be permitted to see you safely — 
wherever you may be going?” 

For a moment Margery gazed at him steadily in defiance of 
her secret weakness, as if to impress upon her memory the char- 
acteristics of person and manner which she knew so well. In 
that face there was no beauty to attract ; nor in his was there 
any special grace or sweetness to allure, and yet she shrank — 
though not outwardly — from his modest yet direct gaze and from 
the tones of his voice. 

“ That is as you please, ” she said, with that fine air of distance 
and reserve which recalled the impression of the early years 
before she had shown herself gracious to him. “ I am going to 
the hotel, where my servant and carriage are in waiting ; but if 
it appears to you to be your duty to see me to the door which 
is in view, do I not object, especially as it will give me the 
opportunity of telling you what I have already told your 
mother — that we are going away. ” 

She saw he bore the intelligence without wincing, not from 
lack of feeling, but because John Cartwright had forecast every 
contingency in p^st hours of suffering, and was therefore armed 
at all points. 


252 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


“ Do you mean that you have been so good and generous as to 
visit my mother? ” he asked in a very low tone, for he was half- 
afraid to trust himself to speak. 

“Yes, we are going to Monaco first, and then shall travel for 
some months — a year, perhaps, so I have been paying farewell 
visits to all my friends. Your mother has been very kind to 

me ” She stopped, raised her head and added firmly, “So 

also has her son. I do not forget anything when I say this. I 
wish to part friends, Mr. Cartwright. Is there any law against 
that?” 

They had reached the inn -door. She held out her hand as if 
to dismiss him without the option of reply. Moreover, it was 
market-day in Copplestone, and the entrance was besieged with 
comers and goers, so that an answer, other than the most con- 
ventional, would have been impossible. But Margery saw that 
John had no words to answer even if they had stood alone in 
some primeval solitude. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

AN ARTIST’S TRIUMPH. 

■ The next twelve months, which passed with all the swiftness 
of an ordered monotony to the Cartwright household, passed 
scarcely more swiftly to Gilbert Yorke, who spent the same period 
in more or less adventurous travel, and whose letters to his 
friend were so frequent as circumstances would allow and as 
loyal as John’s heart could desire. 

But travel and adventure were not as the breath of life to this 
young man as to so many of his countrymen, and in the second 
year of his exile he began to yearn for home and intimate fellow- 
ship, for the opera-house and chamber music of Europe, and, 
above all, for those possibilities which he knew circumstances 
had not yet put out of his reach. No man was ever a more 
faithful lover. So far as he had been able to ascertain, Margery 
was still unmarried, and John on the one occasion when her 
name was mentioned in his letters had assured him that no 
possibility of union subsisted between them. Hence, Gilbert 
Yorke was free to repeat the question asked and answered so 
often before, but never yet accepted. 

At Suez, Gilbert found letters that had been awaiting him for 


AN artist’s triumph. 


253 


months, and which served still further to hasten his return. 
Mr. Percival wrote to inform him of the death of his cousin 
Edward Yorke, not from his congenital weakness, but from a 
sudden attack of lung disease, and the old lawyer advised Gil- 
bert’s immediate return home to look after his affairs, and to 
live the life of an English country gentleman. 

“Rookhurst aud Appledores are still yours, ” he wrote, “though 
you seem to have turned your back on your good fortune. If 
you have any doubt of my meaning, five minutes conference in 
my chambers will remove it. ” A letter from J ohn of a more 
recent date elucidated Mr. Percival’ s, and it also told him that 
the ladies of The Hollies had written to his father to announce 
their return within a few weeks, and that their letter had been 
dated from Florence. 

Thither Gilbert went, a new hope feeding the undyiug fiame 
of his love. Besides, a visit to Florence was always an act of 
religion with him. 

There was his mother’s grave and his most sarced memories ; 
there were still to be found the English chaplain who had be- 
friended him and the maestro, as he still called him, who had 
discovered and trained his musical faculty. On this occasion a 
curious thing happened. 

On going to the old man, he found him in a state' of great 
agitation and distress in consequence of a disabling accident 
that he had just met. 

In making his chocolate that morning — a duty he never 
suffered the old woman who 'waited upon him to perform— he 
had scalded his left hand so severely that it would be impossi- 
ble for him to fulfil his professional engagements. He was first 
violin at the Teatro Goldini, and the opera of Fidelo was to be 
given on the following night. The difi&culty that threw him 
into a fever of anxiety was where, at such short notice, should 
he be able to find a substitute? 

Gilbert, with a blush almost as deep and a humility almost 
as deferential as when he had been a boy, proffered his own 
services, should the master think them available. He was in- 
timately acquainted with the score ; he had studied at Leipzig 
and elsewhere almost ever since he had left Florence, and there 
were still twenty-four hours for practice ! 

The old musician seized the offer with avidity ; it delivered 
him from the rankling apprehension lest the man who served 
under him, and was already a formidable rival, should step into 


254 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


his place and maintain the position, and he had a warm recol- 
lection of the talent he had fostered. 

Gilbert had not thought it necessary to go into careful partic- 
ulars about his altered fortunes, and his old friend regarded 
him with much the same patronising kindness as when he had 
given him lessons for humble duties fulfilled. He found the 
young man very handsome and charming ; but that he had 
always been, and the consideration that now swallowed up 
every other was whether he were really able to do the thing 
he had ventured to propose. 

Gilbert, at command, fetched his own violin, which had been 
his companion in all his recent wanderings, to Guardini’s apart- 
ment, to prove or perfect his fitness, though the desire had been 
strong upon him to spend the day in trying to discover whether 
Margery and her aunt were in the city, and if so to pay his 
respects to them. 

He put it aside, however, as a thing not to be attempted till 
the present enterprise was fulfilled, and which was in itself a 
debt of gratitude and friendship that he paid with triumphant 
delight. 

Guardini, at the first recital, loaded him with praise, ex- 
pressing the most ardent approval, and then incontinently began 
to correct and to advise in respect to almost every point of treat- 
ment. To some men aware, as Gilbert could not fail to be, of 
conspicuous merit, such conduct would have been insufferable ; 
but he had the divine humility of the true artist, and submitted 
with the docility of a disciple. 

That day and the chief part of the next were spent in rigorous 
practice, and at the usual time before the appointed hour of per- 
formance, maestro and pupil repaired to the theatre in an equal 
state of expectation and excitement. The conductor of the 
orchestra had not been informed respecting Guardini’s acci- 
dent, owing to his jealous apprehension of consequences, so 
that there was no alternative at the last moment but to accept 
the substitute provided, and to trust kind heaven for the re- 
sult. Of that result the dress, manners, and looks of the young 
Englishman filled him with the most sinister misgivings. An 
amateur and a gentleman to boot ! 

The whole orchestra, animated by that esprit de corps never 
more vigorous than amongst the members of their profession, 
banded themselves into hard and open antagonism, until Gilbert, 
in the half hour that he had at his dispoal, won them over to a 


AN artist’s triumph. 


255 


better mind with his fluent Tuscan and ready German, and by a 
frank narrative of the obligations he owed to il signor Guardini. 

“ I shall be helpless if you will not help me, ” he said as they 
moved to their respective places, and one and all vowed loyally 
to do their best. 

Every true artist has his own mode of intepretation, and, 
happily, Gilbert’s knowledge of the score was so thorough as 
to leave him in quiet possession of all the resources of his musi- 
cal genius. He performed to admiration, and with an enthu- 
siasm so stimulating that it communicated itself to every mem- 
ber of the orchestra, and spread like a wave of fire over the 
audience. The delighted Guardini led the bravas of the house, 
and when the close of the final movement was reached, there 
was a tmanimous call for the appearance of the young volunteer 
before the curtain, the facts of the case having become mysteri- 
ously known throughout the theatre. 

But Gilbert had succeeded in slipping away unperceived — an 
impulse of modesty, and perhaps of respect to his grandfather’s 
prejudices, making such a public exhibition of himself dastaste- 
ful. Besides this his racing pulses and exhausted energies, 
severely taxed during the last twenty-four hours, made the rest 
and seclusion of his hotel the thing chiefiy to be desired. 

As he ran down the stairs of the theatre and stepped out on the 
Piazza, a messenger followed him and put a letter in his hand, 
disappearing immediately without giving opportunity for ques- 
tion or waiting for reply. 

The night-sky was ablaze with stars and with the light of a 
moon that hung in the palpitating atmosphere like a golden 
shield ; the river ran like liquid amber under its rays, and every 
leaf of the trees in the Boboli Gardens stood out sharply defined 
against the heavenly background. There would have been no 
difficulty in reading the smallest type, much less the bold, clear 
handwriting of Margery Denison. 

One swift, comprehensive glance was enough. It ran thus : 

“We are in our old quarters on the Arno; come and see us 
to-morrow morning. We were in the theatre, though you did 
not know it, and you have given us the proudest hour of our 
lives. ” 

Gilbert looked up with an expression that glorified his face — it 
was the rapture of an anticipated joy. For a moment he held 
the paper crushed against his lips, then the sound of the surging 
crowd behind him and the simultaneous rush of carriage or fiacre 


256 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


that had stood motionless the minute before, told him the house 
was emptying, and that the solitude of the Via Romana sleeping 
now under the smiling night-sky was a thing of the past. It 
was even possible he might be recognised. He called a fiacre 
and drove to his hotel. 


CHAPTER XLH. 

SURRENDER AT DISCRETION. 

The welcome given to Sir Gilbert Yorke by Mrs. Sutherland 
and her niece was as gracious and cordial as even the young man 
could desire ; but it was not more gracious or cordial than that 
which he had received as a boy in the same rooms year before, 
when generosity and gratitude were the ties between them. 

It almost seemed, as he stood by Margery’s side and looked 
down on the glitering river and the sauntering crowd, as if 
Time had rolled back his record and restored to them their boy- 
hood and girlhood and all the light-heartedness that had gone 
with them. 

The praises he received for his last night’s work were delight- 
ful to hear when they were uttered by lips at once so dear and 
so discriminating as were those of Margery, whose musical cult- 
ure was thorough and enlightened. 

“I could scarcely describe my sensations,” she said, “when I 
saw that it was you. I could not understand at first, and won- 
dered whether nature, or art rather, had been too strong for 
you — stronger than wealth or rank. But the sight of poor old 
Guardini’s swathed hand and face of intense anxiety, together 
with my remembrance of your former relations, explained mat- 
ters, and then I had but one feeling left — the desire that you 
should do yourself justice. You know, I have always believed 
in you, but — you could not have done better, Gilbert !” 

“So Avell, ” observed Mrs. Sutherland smiling, “that Margery’s 
eyes were full of tears over and over again. ” 

“That is quite true. There is some music that dissolves my 
soul and fills me with a sort of anguish of delight. This is es- 
pecially the case with Fidelo, and you played with such imper- 
sonal ardour that my heart would have gone out to you as a 
stranger. When you ran away from the audience with that 
marvellous fiddle of yours under your arm, and I saw yoti give 
it a little pat and a sort of slight sly kiss, I could resist you no 
longer. I scribbled the few words you got, on a corner of my 


SURRENDER AT DISCRETION. 


257 


programme and sent a boy in pursuit of you. ,^It was like you 
to come at once. ” 

All this was delightful, as were the days that followed. They 
went over all the old ground together, even visiting the rooms 
which poor Christina Yorke had occupied, and standing to- 
gether by her grave. Every excursion of the old days was 
repeated, and others made which had not been made before ; 
and in the evenings, which were still long, for the season was 
early, Margery and Gilbert practised together, trying over curi- 
ous old scores of mediaeval church music which Guardini had 
lent to his pupil. 

It was all so sweet and pleasant ! There was no alien influence . 
to disturb the flow of the happy days, so that Gilbert feared to 
break the spell by any precipitate action on his own part, 
although the desire to tempt his fate once more grew daily more 
and more beyond his control. 

Never had Margery been more enchanting or so kind ; but then 
was not her free kindness the quality most to be deprecated by 
a lover? 

After his habit, he wrote to John Cartwright and poured out 
his heart in the letter. “ And yet, ” he wrote, and it was witten 
in all sincerity, “ were her happiness really bound up in you and 
yours in her, I would even now stand aside and wish you both 
hon voyage in sincerity and truth. ” 

But John wrote back, “It was an episode, and it was past for 
both of them. He was happy in his work and in his home, with 
only one personal interest outside of it — his dear friend’s return ; 
and if he came back as the husband, actual or affianced, of 
Margery Denison, so much the more welcome would he be. ” 

Still Gilbert hesitated, and before breaking ground tried to 
gather encouragement or defeat from Mrs. Sutherland. He asked 
her boldly what she thought his chances were. 

“I don’t know,” was her answer. “Margery is so difficult to 
understand. I have my views, to be sure, but I do not trust 
them as I used. Speaking as an old woman, my dear, I do not 
know how a young one could resist you. You are nicer than 
ever, and then, you see, all is come right — estates, title, and 
everything, but then Margeiy cares for nothing of all that ! 
Under the rose, my dear Sir Gilbert, she has actually refused 
Lord Thimberley a second time. He met us in Rome in the 
winter, and could not rest till he had tried again. It was all in 
vain, though. I did my best. Still I am glad now for your sake. ” 

17 


258 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


But it was not till the evening before their departure for 
England that Gilbert summoned resolution to speak. He had 
come in to bid them good-bye — he himself was going to follow 
in a few days — and he found Margery sitting alone in the loggia, 
watching the animated scene below. He stood in silence by 
her side for a few minutes, looking as she looked and then let 
his eyes stray to the distant landscape, where the setting sun 
was gilding the peaks of the Apennines and steeping the pale 
leaves of the olive orchards in a bath of lire. 

“ If I could have my wish, ” he said in the low voice which 
alone seemed appropriate to the hour and the scene, “I would 
live and die in Florence !” 

Margery turned towards him with her delicate smile. 

“ That would scarcely be doing your duty in that sphere of life 
to which it has pleased God to call you ! What of the manage- 
ment of your great estates — the essential seat in Parliament or 
on the Justices’ bench at least, to say nothing of the duties 
which Sir Gilbert Yorke owes to society and to art. What a 
munificent patron it will be in our power to become ! Let that 
reconcile you t(f your riches. Still, my dear friend, I am in- 
clined to believe that fate and Sir Owen Yorke have been too 
kind to you. You were in your right place, the place nature 
intended, when you stood with your beloved violin in your 
hand at the head of the Goldini orchestra. How fine you 
looked ! If that were your vocation !” She paused, and a flush, 
not caught from the sunset, passed over her face. 

Gilbert knelt down quietly by her chair and took her hand. 

“ I understand. You mean that in that case I might have been 
so happy as to persuade you to cast your lot with mine? And 
why not otherwise — now? I love you better than ever !” 

“ Because I am not worthy ! I have misprised your love from 
the beginning — taken it as a matter of course — a boy’s gift not 
worth a woman’s acceptance. What you offer me, Gilbert, not 
one man in a thousand could offer ; and it ought to be received 
by a heart as steadfast as your own. Mine, as you know, has 
gone astray — shall we say, after a false light — at least after one 
that was very soon extinguished, and proves me, therefore, 
weak and unstable. You have too much to forgive.” 

“ I forgive it all. Had you taken me at my first prayer, I 
should have been very happy, but the happiness would have 
been poor and shallow in comparison with what it will be if 
you take me now ! Cancel all your transgressions with one word, 
Margery. Say you will come to me at last. ” 


SURRENDER AT DISCRETION. 


259 


She turned away her head and reflected with knitted brows. 
He waited in patience, not even pressing the hand she had not 
withdrawn. 

‘‘ How can I come to you now, ” she asked, “ and hold up my 
head? I refused you when you had nothing and would have 
stripped yourself for my sake. Now, you offer me everything 
that the wise world knows no w^oman can refuse, and I recon- 
sider the position, and consent ! It w^ould put even such chivalry 
as yours to the strain !” 

“But then I know, and the wise world as w^ell, that you have 
refused a peerage offered more than once ; therefore, if you let 
Lord Thimberley go and take me, it is no the accidents of posi- 
tion wdiich decide your choice. Dear, let the past alone. I love 
you none the less that you did not love me years ago. I w^as not 
w^orthy. Nor that you passed me by again because John Cart- 
wright had then taken captive — was it your heart, Margery, or 
is that still at your own disposal?” 

She smiled. “You have learnt to know your power and your 
worth and to plead in a different style from the old times. But 
I am not to be taunted with impunity ! If your friend gave me 
back my heart, sir, at least remember that cousin Philipa w^ould 
not accept yom's at any price. But I do wrong to jest ! If you 
could have given her that, the sweet soul would have taught 
us new lessons in love and blessedness. ” 

“Do you know,” he said very quietly, “that I have received v 
letter from her within the last few days, telling me how^ happy she 
and her mother are together, and giving me a message for you ?” 

“Which you have not delivered, though your opportunities 
are many !” 

“Yes, but my courage has not been equal to them. But I 
will give it you now.” 

He rose as he spoke and stood before her, the flaming glory of 
the sunset throwing his face and figure into strong relief. 

“They are very simple w^ords, like herself. If you did not 
love her I would out repeat them. She says ” — he looked dowm 
at the letter he had taken from his pocket — “ I want you to be 
happy with IVlargery. That is my prayer for you, morning and 
night. If you are happy so am I. Tell her this from me. ” 

He stopped, for Philipa ’s message touched him deeply. Then 
he said, “I have told her. Answer, Margery!” 

She sat in deep though for some moments, then asked, looking 
up at him with intense anxiety : 

“Are you sure you love me? Sure that this feeling is not a 


260 


PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 


shadow, a reflection, from the old real thing, or some twist or 
turn of chivalric feeling? There never was so true a knight ! I 
don’t deserve such fidelity, and am frightened lest you should be 
deceiving yourself. If I became your wife and you found this 
out ^ 

They were inteiTupted by Mrs. Sutherland’s voice calling Mar- 
gery : 

“My dear, you must not sit out there any longer ! You know 
how we have been warned of the mist that rises after sunset. ” 

Then perceiving her mistake, for she had thought her niece 
was alone, she stopped short, hesitated and blushed like a girl. 

“ Oh, dear Sir Gilbert, forgive me ! I am a blundering old 
woman. But I do not count anything ! Am I to congratulate 
you ? ” 

Each blushed and smiled, and Margery, holding out her hand 
to Gilbert with a shyness that thrilled him with delight, they 
both stepped over the threshold of the loggia into the room 
within. Then she went up to her aunt and kissed her affection- 
ately. “Congratulate me. Gilbert has told me once more the 
old story, but I want courage to believe that I deserve to be so 
happy. Speak for me, aunt Sutherland ; his goodness makes 
me humble — I am afraid of myself. ” 

“ My dear, ” was the answer, “ you know my views ! I believe 
you have loved Sir Gilbert Yorke all the time without knowing 
it, or if not ” — with a twinkle in her eye — “ you at least fell vio- 
lently in love with him a month ago to-day at the Teatro 
Goldini !” 

As Margery, covered with blushes, glanced towards her lover, 
Mrs. Sutherland slipped out of the room. 

“I believe that is true, but does it matter — whether then or 
long ago? At least, I am yours now.” 

She stretched out her hand, and as he sprang to meet it and 
to press it against his lips and heart with a passion none the 
less ardent because chastened by reverence and gratitude, Mar- 
gery looke down upon him as he half knelt before her with eyes 
full of tears. 

The thought of his long fidelity, beginning as it did in the 
Iddersleigh meadows, touched her profoundly. She stooped 
lower and kissed his forehead. 

“ Ah, ” she murmured with her delicious smile, as she suffered 
him to clasp her in his arms, “you have been faithful from a 
boy ; but what arrears of love it will behove me to make up !” 

. The End 


PASSING 

THE LOVE OF WOMEN 


BY 

MRS. J. H. NEEDELL 

AUTHOR OF STEPHEN ELLICOTT’s DAUGHTER, THE STORY OF 
PHILIP METHUEN, ETC. 


NEW YORK 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 

1892 




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